I  am  a  heritage,  because  I 
brln£  you  years  of  tboupbt 
and  tbe  lore  of  time  ^-^ 
I  Impart  yet  I  can  Dot  5pea!<^ 
I  have  traveled  amorc^  tbe 
peoples  o§  tbe  eartb 
am  a  rover ~^  C' 
I  5tr<^y  jrorr?  tbe 
of  tbe  cm  u;bo  loves  and 


n9Looeo  n?e  u;bei9  I  an? 
£or?e—  Sbould  you/Lpd 
me  va^ra^t  please  send 
rr?e  bon9e-amoi9fi  n?y 
brothers  -on  tbe  book-, 
sbelves   of 


THE  VALLEY  OF 
THE  MOON 


BY 
JACK  LONDON 


McKINLAY,  STONE  &  MACKENZIE 
NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1913, 
tfr  COSMOPOLITAN  MAGAZINE. 


COPYRIGHT,  1911 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  October,  1913.    Reprinted 
October,  twice,  November,  December,  twice,  1913  :  January,  March. 
August,  November,  1914 ;  July,  1915-  March,  1916 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON 
BOOK  I 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON 


CHAPTER   I 

"You  hear  me,  Saxon?  Come  on  along.  "What  if  it  is 
the  Bricklayers'?  I'll  have  gentlemen  friends  there,  and 
soil  you.  The  Al  Vista  band  11  be  along,  an'  you  know 
it  plays  heavenly.  An'  you  just  love  danein' " 

Twenty  feet  away,  a  stout,  elderly  woman  interrupted  the 
girl's  persuasions.  The  elderly  woman's  back  was  turned, 
and  the  back — loose,  bulging,  and  misshapen — began  a  con- 
vulsive heaving. 

' '  Gawd ! "  she  cried  out.    L '  0  Gawd ! " 

She  flung  wild  glances,  like  those  of  an  entrapped  animal, 
up  and  down  the  big  whitewashed  room  that  panted  with 
heat  and  that  was  thickly  humid  with  the  steam  that  sizzled 
from  the  damp  cloth  under  the  irons  of  the  many  ironers. 
From  the  girls  and  women  near  her,  all  swinging  irons 
steadily  but  at  high  pace,  came  quick  glances,  and  labor 
efficiency  suffered  to  the  extent  of  a  score  of  suspended  or 
inadequate  movements.  The  elderly  woman's  cry  had 
caused  a  tremor  of  money-loss  to  pass  among  the  piece- 
work ironers  of  fancy  starch. 

She  gripped  herself  and  her  iron  with  a  visible  effort,  and 
dabbed  futilely  at  the  frail,  frilled  garment  on  the  board 
under  her  hand. 

"I  thought  she'd  got  'em  again — didn't  you?"  the  girl 
said. 

"It's  a  shame,  a  woman  of  her  age,  and  .  .  .  condi- 
tion," Saxon  answered,  as  she  frilled  a  lace  ruffle  with  a 
hot  fluting-iron.  Her  movements  were  delicate,  safe,  and 
swift,  and  though  her  face  was  wan  with  fatigue  and  ex- 
hausting heat,  there  was  no  slackening  in  her  pace. 

"An'  her  with  seven,  an'  two  of  'em  in  reform  school,*' 
3 


4  THE   VALLEY   <JF   THE   MOON 

the  girl  at  the  next  board  sniffed  sympathetic  agreement. 
"But  you  just  got  to  come  to  Weasel  Park  to-morrow, 
Saxon.  The  Bricklayers '  is  always  lively — tugs-of-war,  fat- 
man  races,  real  Irish  jiggin',  an'  .  .  .  an'  everything. 
An'  the  floor  of  the  pavilion's  swell." 

But  the  elderly  woman  brought  another  interruption. 
}She  dropped  her  iron  on  the  shirtwaist,  clutched  at  the 
board,  fumbled  it,  caved  in  at  the  knees  and  hips,  and  like 
a  half-empty  sack  collapsed  on  the  floor,  her  long  shriek 
rising  in  the  pent  room  to  the  acrid  smell  of  scorching 
cloth.  The  women  at  the  boards  near  to  her  scrambled, 
first,  to  the  hot  iron  to  save  the  cloth,  and  then  to  her,  while 
the  forewoman  hurried  belligerently  down  the  aisle.  The 
women  farther  away  continued  unsteadily  at  their  work, 
losing  movements  to  the  extent  of  a  minute's  set-back  to 
the  totality  of  the  efficiency  of  the  fancy-starch  room. 

"Enough  to  kill  a  dog,"  the  girl  muttered,  thumping  her 
iron  down  on  its  rest  with  reckless  determination.  "Work- 
in'  girls'  life  ain't  what  it's  cracked  up.  Me  to  quit — 
that's  what  I'm  comin'  to." 

"Mary!"  Saxon  uttered  the  other's  name  with  a  re- 
proach so  profound  that  she  was  compelled  to  rest  her  own 
iron  for  emphasis  and  so  lose  a  dozen  movements. 

Mary  flashed  a  half-frightened  look  across. 

"I  didn't  mean  it,  Saxon,"  she  whimpered.  "Honest,  I 
didn't.  I  wouldn't  never  go  that  way.  But  I  leave  it  to 
you,  if  a  day  like  this  don't  get  on  anybody's  nerves.  Lis- 
ten to  that!" 

The  stricken  woman,  on  her  back,  drumming  her  heels 
on  the  floor,  was  shrieking  persistently  and  monotonously, 
like  a  mechanical  siren.  Two  women,  clutching  her  under 
the  arms,  were  dragging  her  down  the  aisle.  She  drummed 
and  shrieked  the  length  of  it.  The  door  opened,  and  a  vast, 
muffled  roar  of  machinery  burst  in ;  and  in  the  roar  of  it 
the  drumming  and  the  shrieking  were  drowned  ere  the 
door  swung  shut.  Remained  of  the  episode  only  the  scorch 
of  cloth  drifting  ominously  through  the  air. 

"It's  sickening"  said  Mary. 


THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON  5 

And  thereafter,  for  a  long  time,  the  many  irons  rose  and 
fell,  the  pace  of  the  room  in  no  wise  diminished ;  while  the 
forewoman  strode  the  aisles  with  a  threatening  eye  for 
incipient  breakdown  and  hysteria.  Occasionally  an  ironer 
lost  the  stride  for  an  instant,  gasped  or  sighed,  then  caught 
it  up  again  with  weary  determination.  The  long  summer 
day  waned,  but  not  the  heat,  and  under  the  raw  flare  of 
electric  light  the  work  went  on. 

By  nine  o'clock  the  first  women  began  to  go  home.  The 
mountain  of  fancy  starch  had  been  demolished — all  save 
the  few  remnants,  here  and  there,  on  the  boards,  where  the 
ironers  still  labored. 

Saxon  finished  ahead  of  Mary,  at  whose  board  she  paused 
on  the  way  out. 

"Saturday  night  an'  another  week  gone,"  Mary  said 
mournfully,  her  young  cheeks  pallid  and  hollowed,  her  black 
eyes  blue-shadowed  and  tired.  "What  d'you  think  you've 
made,  Saxon?" 

"Twelve  and  a  quarter,"  was  the  answer,  just  touched 
with  pride.  "And  I'd  a-made  more  if  it  wasn't  for  that 
fake  bunch  of  starchers." 

"My!  I  got  to  pass  it  to  you,"  Mary  congratulated. 
"You're  a  sure  fierce  hustler — just  eat  it  up.  Me — I've 
only  ten  an '  a  half,  an '  for  a  hard  week.  .  .  .  See  you  on 
the  nine-forty.  Sure  now.  We  can  just  fool  around  until 
the  dancin'  begins.  A  lot  of  my  gentlemen  friends '11  be 
there  in  the  afternoon." 

Two  blocks  from  the  laundry,  where  an  arc-light  showed 
a  gang  of  toughs  on  the  corner,  Saxon  quickened  her  pace. 
Unconsciously  her  face  set  and  hardened  as  she  passed. 
She  did  not  catch  the  words  of  the  muttered  comment,  but 
the  rough  laughter  it  raised  made  her  guess  and  warmed 
her  cheeks  with  resentful  blood.  Three  blocks  more,  turn- 
ing once  to  left  and  once  to  right,  she  walked  on  through 
the  night  that  was  already  growing  cool.  On  either  side 
were  workingmen's  houses,  of  weathered  wood,  the  ancient 
paint  grimed  with  the  dust  of  years,  conspicuous  only  for 
cheapness  and  ugliness. 


6  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

Dark  it  was,  but  she  made  no  mistake,  the  familiar  sag 
and  screeching  reproach  of  the  front  gate  welcome  under 
her  hand.  She  went  along  the  narrow  walk  to  the  rear, 
avoided  the  missing  step  without  thinking  about  it,  and 
entered  the  kitchen,  where  a  solitary  gas-jet  flickered.  She 
turned  it  up  to  the  best  of  its  flame.  It  was  a  small  room, 
not  disorderly,  because  of  lack  of  furnishings  to  disorder 
it.  The  plaster,  discolored  by  the  steam  of  many  wash- 
days, was  crisscrossed  with  cracks  from  the  big  earthquake 
of  the  previous  spring.  The  floor  was  ridged,  wide-cracked, 
and  uneven,  and  in  front  of  the  stove  it  was  worn  through 
and  repaired  with  a  five-gallon  oil-can  hammered  flat  and 
double.  A  sink,  a  dirty  roller-towel,  several  chairs,  and  a 
wooden  table  completed  the  picture. 

An  apple-core  crunched  under  her  foot  as  she  drew  a 
chair  to  the  table.  On  the  frayed  oilcloth,  a  supper  waited. 
She  attempted  the  cold  beans,  thick  with  grease,  but  gave 
them  up,  and  buttered  a  slice  of  bread. 

The  rickety  house  shook  to  a  heavy,  prideless  tread,  and 
through  the  inner  door  came  Sarah,  middle-aged,  lop- 
breasted,  hair-tousled,  her  face  lined  with  care  and  fat 
petulance. 

"Huh,  it's  you,"  she  grunted  a  greeting.  "I  just 
couldn't  keep  things  warm.  Such  a  day!  I  near  died  of 
the  heat.  An'  little  Henry  cut  his  lip  awful.  The  doctor 
had  to  put  four  stitches  in  it. ' ' 

Sarah  came  over  and  stood  mountainously  by  the  table. 

"What's  the  matter  with  them  beans?"  she  challenged. 

"Nothing,  only  .  .  ."  Saxon  caught  her  breath  and 
avoided  the  threatened  outburst.  "Only  I'm  not  hungry. 
It 's  been  so  hot  all  day.  It  was  terrible  in  the  laundry. ' ' 

Recklessly  she  took  a  mouthful  of  the  cold  tea  that  had 
been  steeped  so  long  that  it  was  like  acid  in  her  mouth, 
and  recklessly,  under  the  eye  of  her  sister-in-law,  she  swal- 
lowed it  and  the  rest  of  the  cupful.  She  wiped  her  mouth 
on  her  handkerchief  and  got  up. 

"I  guess  I'll  go  to  bed." 

"Wonder  you  ain't  out  to  a  dance,"  Sarah  sniffed. 


THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON  T 

"Funny,  ain't  it,  you  come  home  so  dead  tired  every  night, 
an'  yet  any  night  in  the  week  you  can  get  out  an'  dance 
unearthly  hours." 

Saxon  started  to  speak,  suppressed  herself  with  tightened 
lips,  then  lost  control  and  blazed  out;  "Wasn't  you  ever 
young  ? ' ' 

Without  waiting  for  reply,  she  turned  to  her  bedroom, 
which  opened  directly  off  the  kitchen.  It  was  a  small  room, 
eight  by  twelve,  and  the  earthquake  had  left  its  marks 
upon  the  plaster.  A  bed  and  chair  of  cheap  pine  and  a 
very  ancient  chest  of  drawers  constituted  the  furniture. 
Saxon  had  known  this  chest  of  drawers  all  her  life.  The 
vision  of  it  was  woven  into  her  earliest  recollections.  She 
knew  it  had  crossed  the  plains  with  her  people  in  a  prairie 
schooner.  It  was  of  solid  mahogany.  One  end  was  cracked 
and  dented  from  the  capsize  of  the  wagon  in  Rock  Canyon. 
A  bullet-hole,  plugged,  in  the  face  of  the  top  drawer,  told 
of  the  fight  with  the  Indians  at  Little  Meadow.  Of  these 
happenings  her  mother  had  told  her;  also  had  she  told  that 
the  chest  had  come  with  the  family  originally  from  Eng- 
land in  a  day  even  earlier  than  the  day  on  which  George 
Washington  was  born. 

Above  the  chest  of  drawers,  on  the  wall,  hung  a  small 
looking-glass.  Thrust  under  the  molding  were  photo- 
graphs of  young  men  and  women,  and  of  picnic  groups 
wherein  the  young  men,  with  hats  rakishly  on  the  backs 
of  their  heads,  encircled  the  girls  with  their  arms.  Farther 
along  on  the  wall  were  a  colored  calendar  and  numerous 
colored  advertisements  and  sketches  torn  out  of  magazines. 
Most  of  these  sketches  were  of  horses.  From  the  gas-fixture 
hung  a  tangled  bunch  of  well-scribbled  dance  programs. 

Saxon  started  to  take  off  her  hat,  but  suddenly  sat  down 
on  the  bed.  She  sobbed  softly,  with  considered  repression, 
but  the  weak-latched  door  swung  noiselessly  open,  and  she 
was  startled  by  her  sister-in-law's  voice. 

"Now  what's  the  matter  with  you?  If  you  didn't  like 
them  beans " 

4 'No,  no,"  Saxon  explained  hurriedly.    "I'm  just  tired, 


8  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

that's  all,  and  my  feet  hurt.  I  wasn't  hungry,  Sarah.  I'm 
just  beat  out." 

"If  you  took  care  of  this  house,"  came  the  retort,  "an* 
cooked  an '  baked,  an '  washed,  an '  put  up  with  what  I  put 
up,  you'd  have  something  to  be  beat  out  about.  You've  got 
a  snap,  you  have.  But  just  wait."  Sarah  broke  off  to 
cackle  gloatingly.  "Just  wait,  that's  all,  an'  you'll  be  fool 
enough  to  get  married  some  day,  like  me,  an'  then  you'll 
get  yours — an'  it'll  be  brats,  an'  brats,  an'  brats,  an'  no 
more  dancin',  an'  silk  stockin's,  an'  three  pairs  of  shoes  at 
one  time.  You've  got  a  cinch — nobody  to  think  of  but 
your  own  precious  self — an'  a  lot  of  young  hoodlums  makin' 
eyes  at  you  an'  tellin'  you  how  beautiful  your  eyes 
are.  Huh  I  Some  fine  day  you'll  tie  up  to  one  of  'em, 
an'  then,  mebbe,  on  occasion,  you'll  wear  black  eyes  for 
a  change." 

'  *  Don 't  say  that,  Sarah, ' '  Saxon  protested.  ' '  My  brother 
never  laid  hands  on  you.  You  know  that." 

"No  more  he  didn't.  He  never  had  the  gumption.  Just 
the  same,  he's  better  stock  than  that  tough  crowd  you  run 
with,  if  he  can't  make  a  livin'  an'  keep  his  wife  in  three 
pairs  of  shoes.  Just  the  same  he's  oodles  better 'n  your 
bunch  of  hoodlums  that  no  decent  woman 'd  wipe  her  one 
pair  of  shoes  on.  How  you've  missed  trouble  this  long  is 
beyond  me.  Mebbe  the  younger  generation  is  wiser  in  such 
things — I  don 't  know.  But  I  do  know  that  a  young  woman 
that  has  three  pairs  of  shoes  ain't  thinkin'  of  anything  but 
her  own  enjoyment,  an'  she's  goin'  to  get  hers,  I  can  tell 
her  that  much.  When  I  was  a  girl  there  wasn't  such 
doin's.  My  mother 'd  taken  the  hide  off  me  if  I  done  the 
things  you  do.  An'  she  was  right,  just  as  everything  in 
the  world  is  wrong  now.  Look  at  your  brother,  a-runnin* 
around  to  socialist  meetin's,  an'  chewin'  hot  air,  an'  dig- 
gin'  up  extra  strike  dues  to  the  union  that  means  so  much 
bread  out  of  the  mouths  of  his  children,  instead  of  makin' 
good  with  his  bosses.  Why,  the  dues  he  pays  would  keep 
me  in  seventeen  pairs  of  shoes  if  I  was  nannygoat  enough 
to  want  'em.  Some  day,  mark  my  words,  he'll  get  hia 


THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON  9 

time,  an'  then  what '11  we  do?  What '11  I  do,  with  five 
mouths  to  feed  an'  nothin'  comin*  in?" 

She  stopped,  out  of  breath  but  seething  with  the  tirade 
yet  to  come. 

"Oh,  Sarah,  please  won't  you  shut  the  door?"  Saxon 
pleaded. 

The  door  slammed  violently,  and  Saxon,  ere  she  fell  to 
crying  again,  could  hear  her  sister-in-law  lumbering  about 
the  kitchen  and  talking  loudly  to  herself. 


CHAPTER   II 

EACH  bought  her  own  ticket  at  the  entrance  to  "Weasel 
Park.  And  each,  as  she  laid  her  half-dollar  down,  was 
distinctly  aware  of  how  many  pieces  of  fancy  starch  were 
represented  by  the  coin.  It  was  too  early  for  the  crowd, 
but  bricklayers  and  their  families,  laden  with  huge  lunch- 
baskets  and  armfuls  of  babies,  were  already  going  in — a 
healthy,  husky  race  of  workmen,  well-paid  and  robustly 
fed.  And  with  them,  here  and  there,  undisguised  by  their 
decent  American  clothing,  smaller  in  bulk  and  stature, 
weazened  not  alone  by  age  but  by  the  pinch  of  lean  years 
and  early  hardship,  were  grandfathers  and  mothers  who 
had  patently  first  seen  the  light  of  day  on  old  Irish  soil. 
Their  faces  showed  content  and  pride  as  they  limped  along 
with  this  lusty  progeny  of  theirs  that  had  fed  on  better 
food. 

Not  with  these  did  Mary  and  Saxon  belong.  They  knew 
them  not,  had  no  acquaintances  among  them.  It  did  not 
matter  whether  the  festival  were  Irish,  German,  or  Slavon- 
ian ;  whether  the  picnic  was  the  Bricklayers ',  the  Brewers ', 
or  the  Butchers'.  They,  the  girls,  were  of  the  dancing 
crowd  that  swelled  by  a  certain  constant  percentage  the 
gate  receipts  of  all  the  picnics. 

They  strolled  about  among  the  booths  where  peanuts 
were  grinding  and  popcorn  was  roasting  in  preparation  for 
the  day,  and  went  on  and  inspected  the  dance  floor  of  the 
pavilion.  Saxon,  clinging  to  an  imaginary  partner,  essayed 
a  few  steps  of  the  dip-waltz.  Mary  clapped  her  hands. 

"  My ! "  she  cried.  ' '  You  're  just  swell !  An '  them  stock- 
in 's  is  peaches." 

Saxon  smiled  with  appreciation,  pointed  out  her  foot, 
velvet-slippered  with  high  Cuban  heels,  and  slightly  lifted 
19 


THE    VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON  11 

the  tight  black  skirt,  exposing  a  trim  ankle  and  delicate 
swell  of  calf,  the  white  flesh  gleaming  through  the  thinnest 
and  flimsiest  of  fifty-cent  black  silk  stockings.  She  was 
slender,  not  tall,  yet  the  due  round  lines  of  womanhood 
were  hers.  On  her  white  shirtwaist  was  a  pleated  jabot 
of  cheap  lace,  caught  with  a  large  novelty  pin  of  imitation 
coral.  Over  the  shirtwaist  was  a  natty  jacket,  elbow-sleeved, 
and  to  the  elbows  she  wore  gloves  of  imitation  suede.  The 
one  eLsentially  natural  touch  about  her  appearance  waa 
the  few  curls,  strangers  to  curling-irons,  that  escaped  from 
tinder  the  little  naughty  hat  of  black  velvet  pulled  low  over 
the  eyes. 

Mary's  dark  eyes  flashed  with  joy  at  the  sight,  and  with 
a  swift  little  run  she  caught  the  other  girl  in  her  arms 
and  kissed  her  in  a  breast-crushing  embrace.  She  released 
her,  blushing  at  her  own  extravagance. 

"You  look  good  to  me,"  she  cried,  in  extenuation.  "If 
I  was  a  man  I  couldn't  keep  my  hands  off  you.  I'd  eat 
you,  I  sure  would." 

They  went  out  of  the  pavilion  hand  in  hand,  and  on 
through  the  sunshine  they  strolled,  swinging  hands  gaily, 
reacting  exuberantly  from  the  week  of  deadening  toil.  They 
hung  over  the  railing  of  the  bear-pit,  shivering  at  the  huge 
and  lonely  denizen,  and  passed  quickly  on  to  ten  minutes 
of  laughter  at  the  monkey  cage.  Crossing  the  grounds, 
they  looked  down  into  the  little  face  track  on  the  bed  of  a 
natural  amphitheater  where  the  early  afternoon  games  were 
to  take  place.  After  that  they  explored  the  woods,  threaded 
by  countless  paths,  ever  opening  out  in  new  surprises  of 
green-painted  rustic  tables  and  benches  in  leafy  nooks, 
many  of  which  were  already  pre-empted  by  family  parties. 
On  a  grassy  slope,  tree-surrounded,  they  spread  a  news- 
paper and  sat  down  on  the  short  grass  already  tawny-dry 
under  the  California  sun.  Half  were  they  minded  to  do 
this  because  of  the  grateful  indolence  after  six  days  of 
insistent  motion,  half  in  conservation  for  the  hours  of  danc- 
ing to  come. 

"Bert  Wanhope'll  be  sure  to  come,"  Mary  chattered. 


12  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

"An*  he  said  he  was  going  to  bring  Billy  Roberts — 'Big 
Bill,'  all  the  fellows  call  him.  He's  just  a  big  boy,  but  he's 
awfully  tough.  He's  a  prizefighter,  an'  all  the  girls  run 
after  him.  I'm  afraid  of  him.  He  ain't  quick  in  talkin'. 
He's  more  like  that  big  bear  we  saw.  Brr-rf !  Brr-rf  \ — 
bite  your  head  off,  just  like  that.  He  ain't  really  a  prize- 
fighter. He's  a  teamster — belongs  to  the  union.  Drives 
for  Corberly  and  Morrison.  But  sometimes  he  fights  in  the 
'clubs.  Most  of  the  fellows  are  scared  of  him.  He's  got  a 
bad  temper,  an'  he'd  just  as  soon  hit  a  fellow  as  eat,  just 
like  that.  You  won't  like  him,  but  he's  a  swell  dancer. 
He's  heavy,  you  know,  an'  he  just  slides  and  glides  around. 
You  wanta  have  a  dance  with  'm  anyway.  He's  a  good 
spender,  too.  Never  pinches.  But  my! — he's  got  one 
temper." 

The  talk  wandered  on,  a  monologue  on  Mary's  part,  that 
centered  always  on  Bert  Wanhope. 

"You  and  he  are  pretty  thick,"  Saxon  ventured. 

"I'd  marry  'm  to-morrow,"  Mary  flashed  out  impul- 
sively. Then  her  face  went  bleakly  forlorn,  hard  almost 
in  its  helpless  pathos.  "Only,  he  never  asks  me.  He's 
.  .  ."  Her  pause  was  broken  by  sudden  passion.  "You 
watch  out  for  him,  Saxon,  if  he  ever  comes  foolin'  around 
you.  He's  no  good.  Just  the  same,  I'd  marry  him  to- 
morrow. He'll  never  get  me  any  other  way."  Her  mouth 
opened,  but  instead  of  speaking  she  drew  a  long  sigh.  "It's 
a  funny  world,  ain't  it?"  she  added.  "More  like  a  scream. 
And  all  the  stars  are  worlds,  too.  I  wonder  where  God 
hides.  Bert  Wanhope  says  there  ain't  no  God.  But  he's 
just  terrible.  He  says  the  most  terrible  things.  I  believe 
in  God.  Don't  you?  What  do  you  think  about  God, 
Saxon?" 

Saxon  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  laughed. 

"But  if  we  do  wrong  we  get  ours,  don't  we?"  Mary 
persisted.  "That's  what  they  all  say,  except  Bert.  He 
says  he  don't  care  what  he  does,  he'll  never  get  his,  because 
when  he  dies  he's  dead,  an'  when  he's  dead  he'd  like  to 
see  any  one  put  anything  across  on  him  that'd  wake  him 


THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON  13 

up.  Ain't  he  terrible,  though?  But  it's  all  so  funny. 
Sometimes  I  get  scared  when  I  think  God's  keepin'  an  eye 
on  me  all  the  time.  Do  you  think  he  knows  what  I  'm  sayin ' 
now?  What  do  you  think  he  looks  like,  anyway?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Saxon  answered.  "He's  just  a  funny 
proposition." 

"Oh!"  the  other  gasped. 

"He  is,  just  the  same,  from  what  all  people  say  of  him," 
Saxon  went  on  stoutly.  "My  brother  thinks  he  looks  like 
Abraham  Lincoln.  Sarah  thinks  he  has  whiskers." 

"An'  I  never  think  of  him  with  his  hair  parted,"  Mary 
confessed,  daring  the  thought  and  shivering  with  appre- 
hension. "He  just  couldn't  have  his  hair  parted.  That'd 
be  funny." 

"You  know  that  little,  wrinkly  Mexican  that  sells  wire 
puzzles?"  Saxon  queried.  "Well,  God  somehow  always 
reminds  me  of  him." 

Mary  laughed  outright. 

"Now  that  is  funny.  I  never  thought  of  him  like  that. 
How  do  you  make  it  out?" 

"Well,  just  like  the  little  Mexican,  he  seems  to  spend 
his  time  peddling  puzzles.  He  passes  a  puzzle  out  to  every- 
body, and  they  spend  all  their  lives  tryin'  to  work  it  out. 
They  all  get  stuck.  I  can't  work  mine  out.  I  don't  know 
where  to  start.  And  look  at  the  puzzle  he  passed  Sarah. 
And  she's  part  of  Tom's  puzzle,  and  she  only  makes  his 
worse.  And  they  all,  an'  everybody  I  know — you,  too — are 
part  of  my  puzzle." 

"Mebbe  the  puzzles  is  , right,"  Mary  considered.  "But 

God  don 't  look  like  that  yellow  little  Greater.  That  I  won 't 
fall  for.  God  don 't  look  like  anybody.  Don't  you  remem- 
ber on  the  wall  at  the  Salvation  Army  it  says  'God  is  a 
spirit'?" 

"That's  another  one  of  his  puzzles,  I  guess,  because  no- 
body knows  what  a  spirit  looks  like." 

"That's  right,  too."  Mary  shuddered  with  reminiscent 
fear.  "Whenever  I  try  to  think  of  God  as  a  spirit,  I  can 
see  Hen  Miller  all  wrapped  up  in  a  sheet  an'  runnin'  us 


14  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

girls.  We  didn't  know,  an'  it  scared  the  life  out  of  us. 
Little  Maggie  Murphy  fainted  dead  away,  and  Beatrice 
Peralta  fell  an'  scratched  her  face  horrible.  "When  I  think 
of  a  spirit  all  I  can  see  is  a  white  sheet  runnin'  in  the 
dark.  Just  the  same,  God  don't  look  like  a  Mexican,  an' 
he  don't  wear  his  hair  parted." 

A  strain  of  music  from  the  dancing  pavilion  brought 
both  girls  scrambling  to  their  feet. 

""We  can  get  a  couple  of  dances  in  before  we  eat,"  Mar/ 
proposed.  "An'  then  it'll  be  afternoon  an'  all  the  fel- 
lows'11  be  here.  Most  of  them  are  pinchers — that's  why 
they  don't  come  early,  so  as  to  get  out  of  taking  the  girls 
to  dinner.  But  Bert's  free  with  his  money,  an'  so  is  Billy. 
If  we  can  beat  the  other  girls  to  it,  they'll  take  us  to  the 
restaurant.  Come  on,  hurry,  Saxon." 

There  were  few  couples  on  the  floor  when  they  arrived 
at  the  pavilion,  and  the  two  girls  essayed  the  first  waltz 
together. 

"There's  Bert  now,"  Saxon  whispered,  as  they  came 
around  the  second  time. 

"Don't  take  any  notice  of  them,"  Mary  whispered  back. 
"We'll  just  keep  on  goin'.  They  needn't  think  we're 
chasin'  after  them." 

But  Saxon  noted  the  heightened  color  in  the  other's 
cheek,  and  felt  her  quicker  breathing. 

"Did  you  see  that  other  one?"  Mary  asked,  as  she  backed 
Saxon  in  a  long  slide  across  the  far  end  of  the  pavilion. 
' '  That  was  Billy  Roberts.  Bert  said  he  'd  come.  He  '11  take 
you  to  dinner,  and  Bert  '11  take  me.  It 's  goin '  to  be  a  swell 
day,  you'll  see.  My!  I  only  wish  the  music '11  hold  out 
till  we  can  get  back  to  the  other  end." 

Down  the  floor  they  danced,  on  man-trapping  and  din- 
ner-getting intent,  two  fresh  young  things  that  undeniably 
danced  well  and  that  were  delightfully  surprised  when  the 
music  stranded  them  perilously  near  to  their  desire. 

Bert  and  Mary  addressed  each  other  by  their  given 
names,  but  to  Saxon  Bert  was  "Mr.  Wanhope,"  though  he 
called  her  by  her  first  name.  The  only  introduction  was  of 


THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON  15 

Saxon  and  Billy  Roberts.  Mary  carried  it  off  with  a  flurry 
of  nervous  carelessness. 

"Mr.  Roberts — Miss  Brown.  She's  my  best  friend.  Her 
first  name's  Saxon.  Ain't  it  a  scream  of  a  name?" 

"Sounds  good  to  me,"  Billy  retorted,  hat  off  and  hand 
extended.  "Pleased  to  meet  you,  Miss  Brown." 

As  their  hands  clasped  and  she  felt  the  teamster  cal- 
-  louses  on  his  palm,  her  quick  eyes  saw  a  score  of  things. 
'About  all  that  he  saw  was  her  eyes,  and  then  it  was  with 
a  vague  impression  that  they  were  blue.  Not  till  later  in 
the  day  did  he  realize  that  they  were  gray.  She,  on  the 
contrary,  saw  his  eyes  as  they  really  were — deep  blue,  wide, 
and  handsome  in  a  sullen-boyish  way.  She  saw  that  they 
were  straight-looking,  and  she  liked  them,  as  she  had  liked 
the  glimpse  she  had  caught  of  his  hand,  and  as  sue  liked 
the  contact  of  his  hand  itself.  Then,  too,  but  not  sharply, 
she  had  perceived  the  short,  square-set  nose,  the  rosiness 
of  cheek,  and  the  firm,  short  upper  lip,  ere  delight  centered 
her  flash  of  gaze  on  the  well-modeled,  large  clean  mouth 
where  red  lips  smiled  clear  of  the  white,  enviable  teeth. 
— A  boy,  a  great  big  man-boy,  was  her  thought;  and,  as 
they  smiled  at  each  other  and  their  hands  slipped  apart, 
ehe  was  startled  by  a  glimpse  of  his  hair — short  and  crisp 
and  sandy,  hinting  almost  of  palest  gold  save  that  it  was 
too  flaxen  to  hint  of  gold  at  all. 

So  blond  was  he  that  she  was  reminded  of  stage-types 
she  had  seen,  such  as  Ole  Olson  and  Yon  Yonson;  but 
there  resemblance  ceased.  It  was  a  matter  of  color  only, 
for  the  eyes  were  dark-lashed  and  -browed,  and  were  cloudy 
with  temperament  rather  than  staring  a  child-gaze  of  won- 
der, and  the  suit  of  smooth  brown  cloth  had  been  made  by 
a  tailor.  Saxon  appraised  the  suit  on  the  instant,  and  her 
secret  judgment  was  not  a  cent  less  than  fifty  dollars.  Fur- 
ther, he  had  none  of  the  awkwardness  of  the  Scandinavian 
immigrant.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  one  of  those  rare 
individuals  that  radiate  muscular  grace  through  the  un- 
graceful man-garments  of  civilization.  Every  movement 
was  supple,  slow,  and  apparently  considered.  This  sb* 


16  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

did  not  see  nor  analyze.  She  saw  only  a  clothed  man 
with  grace  of  carriage  and  movement.  She  felt,  rather 
than  perceived,  the  calm  and  certitude  of  all  the  muscular 
play  of  him,  and  she  felt,  too,  the  promise  of  easement  and 
rest  that  was  especially  grateful  and  craved-for  by  one  who 
had  incessantly,  for  six  days  and  at  top-speed,  ironed  fancy 
starch.  As  the  touch  of  his  hand  had  been  good,  so,  to 
her,  this  subtler  feel  of  all  of  him,  body  and  mind,  was 
good. 

As  he  took  her  program  and  skirmished  and  joked  after 
the  way  of  young  men,  she  realized  the  immediacy  of  de- 
light she  had  taken  in  him.  Never  in  her  life  had  she  been 
so  affected  by  any  man.  She  wondered  to  herself:  7s  this 
the  manf 

He  danced  beautifully.  The  joy  was  hers  that  good 
dancers  take  when  they  have  found  a  good  dancer  for  a 
partner.  The  grace  of  those  slow-moving,  certain  muscles 
of  his  accorded  perfectly  with  the  rhythm  of  the  music. 
There  was  never  doubt,  never  a  betrayal  of  indecision.  She 
glanced  at  Bert,  dancing  "tough"  with  Mary,  caroming 
down  the  long  floor  with  more  than  one  collision  with  the 
increasing  couples.  Graceful  himself  in  his  slender,  tall, 
lean-stomached  way,  Bert  was  accounted  a  good  dancer; 
yet  Saxon  did  not  remember  ever  having  danced  with  him 
with  keen  pleasure.  Just  a  bit  of  a  jerk  spoiled  his  dancing 
— a  jerk  that  did  not  occur,  usually,  but  that  always  im- 
pended. There  was  something  spasmodic  in  his  mind.  He 
was  too  quick,  or  he  continually  threatened  to  be  too  quick. 
He  always  seemed  just  on  the  verge  of  overrunning  thej 
time.  It  was  disquieting.  He  made  for  unrest. 

"You're  a  dream  of  a  dancer,"  Billy  Roberts  was  say- 
ing. "I've  heard  lots  of  the  fellows  talk  about  your  danc- 
ing." 

"I  love  it,"  she  answered. 

But  from  the  way  she  said  it  he  sensed  her  reluctance 
to  speak,  and  danced  on  in  silence,  while  she  warmed  with 
the  appreciation  of  a  woman  for  gentle  consideration. 
Gentle  consideration  was  a  thing  rarely  encountered  in  the 


THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON  17 

life  she  lived.  Is  this  the  man?  She  remembered  Mary's 
"I'd  marry  him  to-morrow,"  and  caught  herself  speculat- 
ing on  marrying  Billy  Roberts  by  the  next  day — if  he  asked 
her. 

With  eyes  that  dreamily  desired  to  close,  she  moved  on 
in  the  arms  of  this  masterful,  guiding  pressure.  A  prize- 
fighter! She  experienced  a  thrill  of  wickedness  as  she 
.thought  of  what  Sarah  would  say  could  she  see  her  now. 
'Only  he  wasn  't  a  prizefighter,  but  a  teamster. 

Came  an  abrupt  lengthening  of  step,  the  guiding  pressure 
grew  more  compelling,  and  she  was  caught  up  and  carried 
along,  though  her  velvet-shod  feet  never  left  the  floor.  Then 
came  the  sudden  control  down  to  the  shorter  step  again, 
and  she  felt  herself  being  held  slightly  from  him  so  that 
he  might  look  into  her  face  and  laugh  with  her  in  joy  at 
the  exploit.  At  the  end,  as  the  band  slowed  in  the  last 
bars,  they,  too,  slowed,  their  dance  fading  with  the  music 
in  a  lengthening  glide  that  ceased  with  the  last  lingering 
tone. 

"We're  sure  cut  out  for  each  other  when  it  comes  to 
dancin',"  he  said,  as  they  made  their  way  to  rejoin  the 
other  couple. 

"It  was  a  dream,"  she  replied. 

So  low  was  her  voice  that  he  bent  to  hear,  and  saw  the 
flush  in  her  cheeks  that  seemed  communicated  to  her  eyes, 
which  were  softly  warm  and  sensuous.  He  took  the  pro- 
gram from  her  and  gravely  and  gigantically  wrote  his 
name  across  all  the  length  of  it. 

"An'  now  it's  no  good,"  he  dared.  "Ain't  no  need 
If  or  it." 

He  tore  it  across  and  tossed  it  aside. 

"Me  for  you,  Saxon,  for  the  next,"  was  Bert's  greeting, 
as  they  came  up.  "You  take  Mary  for  the  next  whirl, 
Bill." 

"Nothin'  doin',  Bo,"  was  the  retort.  "Me  an'  Saxon's 
framed  up  to  last  the  day. ' ' 

"Watch  out  for  him,  Saxon,"  Mary  warned  facetiously. 
"He's  liable  to  get  a  crush  on  you." 


18  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

"I  guess  I  know  a  good  thing  when  I  see  it  "  Billy  re- 
sponded gallantly. 

"And  so  do  I,"  Saxon  aided  and  abetted. 

"I'd  'a'  known  you  if  I'd  seen  you  in  the  dark,"  Billy 
added. 

Mary  regarded  them  with  mock  alarm,  and  Bert  said 
good-naturedly : 

"All  I  got  to  say  is  you  ain't  wastin'  any  time  gettin' 
together.  Just  the  same,  if  you  can  spare  a  few  minutes 
from  each  other  after  a  couple  more  whirls,  Mary  an*  me'd 
be  complimented  to  have  your  presence  at  dinner." 

"Just  like  that,"  chimed  Mary. 

"Quit  your  kiddin',"  Billy  laughed  back,  turning  his 
head  to  look  into  Saxon's  eyes.  "Don't  listen  to  'em. 
They're  grouched  because  they  got  to  dance  together. 
Bert's  a  rotten  dancer,  and  Mary  ain't  so  much.  Come  on, 
there  she  goes.  See  you  after  two  more  dances." 


CHAPTER   in 

THEY  had  dinner  in  the  open-air,  tree-walled  dining- 
room,  and  Saxon  noted  that  it  was  Billy  who  paid  the 
reckoning  for  the  four.  They  knew  many  of  the  young 
men  and  women  at  the  other  tables,  and  greetings  and  fun 
flew  back  and  forth.  Bert  was  very  possessive  with  Mary, 
almost  roughly  so,  resting  his  hand  on  hers,  catching  and 
holding  it,  and,  once,  forcibly  slipping  off  her  two  rings 
and  refusing  to  return  them  for  a  long  while.  At  times, 
when  he  put  his  arm  around  her  waist,  Mary  promptly 
disengaged  it ;  and  at  other  times,  with  elaborate  oblivious- 
ness  that  deceived  no  one,  she  allowed  it  to  remain. 

And  Saxon,  talking  little  but  studying  Billy  Roberts  very 
intently,  was  satisfied  that  there  would  be  an  utter  differ- 
ence in  the  way  he  would  do  such  things  ...  if  ever  he 
would  do  them.  Anyway,  he'd  never  paw  a  girl  as  Bert 
and  lots  of  the  other  fellows  did.  She  measured  the  breadth 
of  Billy's  heavy  shoulders. 

' '  Why  do  they  call  you  '  Big '  Bill  ? "  she  asked.  '  *  You  're 
not  so  very  tall. ' ' 

"Nope,"  he  agreed.  "I'm  only  five  feet  eight  an'  three- 
quarters.  I  guess  it  must  be  my  weight." 

"He  fights  at  a  hundred  an'  eighty,"  Bert  interjected. 

"Oh,  cut  it,"  Billy  said  quickly,  a  cloud-rift  of  dis- 
pleasure showing  in  his  eyes.  "I  ain't  a  fighter.  I  ain't 
fought  in  six  months.  I've  quit  it.  It  don't  pay." 

"You  got  two  hundred  the  night  you  put  the  Frisco 
Slasher  tc  the  bad,"  Bert  urged  proudly. 

"Cut  it.    Cut  it  now.    Say,  Saxon,  you  ain't  so  big 

yourself,  are  you?    But  you're  built  just  right  if  anybody 
should  ask  you.     You're  round  an'  slender  at  the 
time.    I  bet  I  can  guess  your  weight." 


20  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

"Everybody  guesses  over  it,"  she  warned,  while  inwardly 
she  was  puzzled  that  she  should  at  the  same  time  be  glad 
and  regretful  that  he  did  not  fight  any  more. 

"Not  me,"  he  was  saying.  "I'm  a  wooz  at  weight- 
guessin'.  Just  you  watch  me."  He  regarded  her  criti- 
cally, and  it  was  patent  that  warm  approval  played  its 
little  rivalry  with  the  judgment  of  his  gaze.  "Wait  a  min- 
nte." 

He  reached  over  to  her  and  felt  her  arm  at  the  biceps. 
The  pressure  of  the  encircling  fingers  was  firm  and  honest, 
and  Saxon  thrilled  to  it.  There  was  magic  in  this  man- 
boy.  She  would  have  known  only  irritation  had  Bert  or 
any  other  man  felt  her  arm.  But  this  man !  Is  he  the 
man?  she  was  questioning,  when  he  voiced  his  conclusion. 

"Your  clothes  don't  weigh  more'n  seven  pounds.  And 
seven  from — hum — say  one  hundred  an'  twenty -three — one 
hundred  an '  sixteen  is  your  stripped  weight. ' ' 

But  at  the  penultimate  word,  Mary  cried  out  with  sharp 
reproof : 

"Why,  Billy  Roberts,  people  don't  talk  about  such 
things." 

He  looked  at  her  with  slow-growing,  uncomprehending 
surprise. 

"What  things?"  he  demanded  finally. 

' '  There  you  go  again !  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
yourself.  Look!  You've  got  Saxon  blushing!" 

"I  am  not,"  Saxon  denied  indignantly. 

"An'  if  you  keep  on,  Mary,  you'll  have  me  blushing," 
Billy  growled.  "I  guess  I  know  what's  right  an'  what 
ain't.  It  ain't  what  a  guy  says,  but  what  he  thinks.  An' 
I'm  thinkin'  right,  an'  Saxon  knows  it.  An'  she  an'  I 
ain't  thinkin'  what  you're  thinkin'  at  all." 

"Oh!  Oh!"  Mary  cried.  "You're  gettin'  worse  an' 
worse.  I  never  think  such  things." 

"Whoa,  Mary !  Back  up !"  Bert  checked  her  peremptor- 
ily. "You're  in  the  wrong  stall.  Billy  never  makes  mis- 
takes like  that." 

' '  But  he  needn  't  be  so  raw, ' '  she  persisted. 


THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON  21 

"Come  on,  Mary,  an'  be  good,  an'  cut  that  stuff,"  was 
Billy's  dismissal  of  her,  as  he  turned  to  Saxon.  "How 
near  did  I  come  to  it  ? " 

"One  hundred  and  twenty-two,"  she  answered,  look- 
ing deliberately  at  Mary.  "One  twenty  two  with  my 
clothes." 

Billy  burst  into  hearty  laughter,  in  which  Bert  joined. 

"'I  don't  care,"  Mary  protested.  "You're  terrible,  both 
of  you — an'  you,  too,  Saxon.  I'd  never  a-thought  it  of 
you. ' ' 

"Listen  to  me,  kid,"  Bert  began  soothingly,  as  his  arm 
slipped  around  her  waist. 

But  in  the  false  excitement  she  had  worked  herself  into, 
Mary  rudely  repulsed  the  arm,  and  then,  fearing  that  she 
had  wounded  her  lover's  feelings,  she  took  advantage  of 
the  teasing  and  banter  to  recover  her  good  humor.  His 
arm  was  permitted  to  return,  and  with  heads  bent  together, 
they  talked  in  whispers. 

Billy  discreetly  began  to  make  conversation  with  Saxon. 

"Say,  you  know,  your  name  is  a  funny  one.  I  never 
heard  it  tagged  on  anybody  before.  But  it's  all  right."  J 
like  it." 

"My  mother  gave  it  to  me.    She  was  educated,  and  knew 

all  kinds  of  words.     She  was  always  reading  books,  almost 

until  she  died.     And  she  wrote  lots  and  lots.     I've  got 

some  of  her  poetry  published  in  a  San  Jose  newspaper 

long  ago.    The  Saxons  were  a  race  of  people — she  told  me 

all  about  them  when  I  was  a  little  girl.     They  were  wild, 

!  like  Indians,  only  they  were  white.     And  they  had  blue 

"eyes,  and  yellow  hair,  and  they  were  awful  fighters.'' 

As  she  talked,  Billy  followed  her  solemnly,  his  eyes  stead- 
ily turned  on  hers. 

"Never  heard  of  them,"  he  confessed.  "Did  they  live 
anywhere  around  here?" 

She  laughed. 

"No.  They  lived  in  England.  They  were  the  first  Eng- 
lish, and  you  know  the  Americans  came  from  the  English. 
"We're  Saxons,  you  an'  me,  an'  Mary,  an'  Bert,  and  all  the 


22  THE   VALLEY    OF    THE   MOON 

Americans  that  are  real  Americans,  you  know,  and  not 
Dagoes  and  Japs  and  such." 

"My  folks  lived  in  America  a  iong  time,"  Billy  said 
slowly,  digesting  the  information  she  had  given  and  relat- 
ing himself  to  it.  "Anyway,  my  mother's  folks  did.  They 
crossed  to  Maine  hundreds  of  years  ago. ' ' 

"My  father  was  State  of  Maine,"  she  broke  in,  with  a, 
little  gurgie  of  joy.  "And  my  mother  was  born  in  Ohio/ 
or  where  Ohio  is  now.  She  used  to  call  it  the  Great  West- 
ern Reserve.  What  was  your  father?" 

"Don't  know."  Billy  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "He 
didn't  know  himself.  Nobody  ever  knew,  though  he  was 
American,  all  right,  all  right." 

"His  name's  regular  old  American,"  Saxon  suggested. 
"There's  a  big  English  general  right  now  whose  name  is 
Roberts.  I've  read  it  in  the  papers." 

"But  Roberts  wasn't  my  father's  name.  He  never  knew 
what  his  name  was.  Roberts  was  the  name  of  a  gold-miner 
who  adopted  him.  You  see,  it  was  this  way.  When  they 
was  Indian-fightin '  up  there  with  the  Modoc  Indians,  a 
lot  of  the  miners  an'  settlers  took  a  hand.  Roberts  was 
captain  of  one  outfit,  and  once,  after  a  fight,  they  took  a 
lot  of  prisoners — squaws,  an'  kids  an'  babies.  An'  one  of 
the  kids  was  my  father.  They  figured  he  was  about  five 
years  old.  He  didn't  know  nothin'  but  Indian." 

Saxon  clapped  her  hands,  and  her  eyes  sparkled:  "He'd 
been  captured  on  an.  Indian  raid!" 

'  *  That 's  the  way  they  figured  it, ' '  Billy  nodded.  ' '  They 
recollected  a  wagon-train  of  Oregon  settlers  that'd  been> 
killed  by  the  Modocs  four  years  before.  Roberts  adopted 
him,  and  that's  why  I  don't  know  his  real  name.  But  you 
can  bank  on  it,  he  crossed  the  plains  just  the  same." 

"So  did  my  father,"  Saxon  said  proudly. 

"An'  my  mother,  too,"  Billy  added,  pride  touching  his 
own  voice.  "Anyway,  she  came  pretty  close  to  crossin'  the 
plains,  because  she  was  born  in  a  wagon  on  the  River  Platte 
on  the  way  out." 

"My  mother,  too,"  said  Saxon.    "She  was  eight  years 


THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON  23 

old,  an'  she  walked  most  of  the  way  after  the  oxen  began 
to  give  out." 

Billy  thrust  out  his  hand. 

"Put  her  there,  kid,"  he  said.  "We're  just  like  old 
friends,  what  with  the  same  kind  of  folks  behind  us." 

With  shining  eyes,  Saxon  extended  her  hand  to  his,  and 
gravely  they  shook. 

' '  Isn  't  it  wonderful  ? "  she  murmured.  ' '  We  're  both  old 
American  stock.  And  if  you  aren't  a  Saxon  there  never 
was  one — your  hair,  your  eyes,  your  skin,  everything.  And 
you're  a- fighter,  too." 

"I  guess  all  our  old  folks  was  fighters  when  it  comes  to 
that.  It  come  natural  to  'em,  an'  dog-gone  it,  they  just 
had  to  fight  or  they  'd  never  come  through. ' ' 

"What  are  you  two  talkin'  about?"  Mary  broke  in  upon 
them. 

"They're  thicker 'n  mush  in  no  time,"  Bert  girded. 
"You'd  think  they'd  known  each  other  a  week  already." 

"Oh,  we  knew  each  other  longer  than  that,"  Saxon  re- 
turned. "Before  ever  we  were  born  our  folks  were  walkin' 
across  the  plains  together." 

"When  your  folks  was  waitin'  for  the  railroad  to  be 
built  an'  all  the  Indians  killed  off  before  they  dasted  to 
start  for  California,"  was  Billy's  way  of  proclaiming  the 
new  alliance.  "We're  the  real  goods,  Saxon  an'  me,  if 
anybody  should  ride  up  on  a  buzz- wagon  an'  ask  you." 

' '  Oh,  I  don 't  know, ' '  Mary  boasted  with  quiet  petulance. 
"My  father  stayed  behind  to  fight  in  the  Civil  War.  He 
was  a  drummer-boy.  That's  why  he  didn't  come  to  Cali- 
fornia until  afterward." 

"And  my  father  went  back  to  fight  in  the  Civil  War," 
Saxon  said. 

"And  mine,  too,"  said  Billy. 

They  looked  at  each  other  gleefully.  Again  they  had 
found  a  new  contact. 

"Well,  they're  all  dead,  ain't  they?"  was  Bert's  satur- 
nine comment.  "There  ain't  no  difference  dyin'  in  battle 
or  in  the  poorhouse.  The  thing  is  they're  deado.  I  wouldn't 


24  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

care  a  rap  if  my  father M  been  hanged.  It's  all  the  same 
in  a  thousand  years.  This  braggin'  about  folks  makes  me 
tired.  Besides,  my  father  couldn't  a- fought.  He  wasn't 
born  till  two  years  after  the  war.  Just  the  same,  two  of 
my  uncles  were  killed  at  Gettysburg.  Guess  we  done  our 
share. ' ' 

"Just  like  that,"  Mary  applauded. 

Bert's  arm  went  around  her  waist  again. 

"We're  here,  ain't  we?"  he  said.  "An'  that's  what 
counts.  The  dead  are  dead,  an'  you  can  bet  your  sweet 
life  they  just  keep  on  stayin'  dead." 

Mary  put  her  hand  over  his  mouth  and  began  to  chide 
him  for  his  awfulness,  whereupon  he  kissed  the  palm  of 
her  hand  and  put  his  head  closer  to  hers. 

The  merry  clatter  of  dishes  was  increasing  as  the  din- 
ing-room filled  up.  Here  and  there  voices  were  raised 
in  snatches  of  song.  There  were  shrill  squeals  and 
screams  and  bursts  of  heavier  male  laughter  as  the  ever- 
lasting skirmishing  between  the  young  men  and  girls  played 
on.  Among  some  of  the  men  the  signs  of  drink  were  al- 
ready manifest.  At  a  near  table  girls  were  calling  out  to 
Billy.  And  Saxon,  the  sense  of  temporary  possession  al- 
ready strong  on  her,  noted  with  jealous  eyes  that  he  was 
a  favorite  and  desired  object  to  them. 

"Ain't  they  awful?"  Mary  voiced  her  disapproval. 
"They  got  a  nerve.  I  know  who  they  are.  No  respectable 
girl  'd  have  a  thing  to  do  with  them.  Listen  to  that ! ' ' 

"Oh,  you  Bill,  you,"  one  of  them,  a  buxom  young  bru- 
nette, was  calling.  "Hope  you  ain't  forgotten  me,  Bill." 

"Oh,  you  chicken,"  he  called  back  gallantly. 

Saxon  flattered  herself  that  he  showed  vexation,  and  she 
conceived  an  immense  dislike  for  the  brunette. 

"Goin'  to  dance?"  the  latter  called. 

"Mebbe,"  he  answered,  and  turned  abruptly  to  Saxon. 
"Say,  we  old  Americans  oughta  stick  together,  don't  you 
think?  They  ain't  many  of  us  left.  The  country's  fillin' 
up  with  all  kinds  of  foreigners." 

He  talked  on  steadily,  in  a  low,  confidential  voice,  head 


THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON  25 

close  to  hers,  as  advertisement  to  the  other  girl  that  he 
was  occupied. 

From  the  next  table  on  the  opposite  side,  a  young  man 
had  singled  out  Saxon.  His  dress  was  tough.  His  com- 
panions, male  and  female,  were  tough.  His  face  was  in- 
flamed, his  eyes  touched  with  wildness. 

' '  Hey,  you ! "  he  called.  ' '  You  with  the  velvet  slippers. 
Me  for  you." 

The  girl  beside  him  put  her  arm  around  his  neck  and 
tried  to  hush  him,  and  through  the  mufflement  of  her  em- 
brace they  could  hear  him  gurgling : 

"I  tell  you  she's  some  goods.  Watch  me  go  across  an* 
win  her  from  them  cheap  skates." 

"Butchertown  hoodlums,"  Mary  sniffed. 

Saxon 's  eyes  encountered  the  eyes  of  the  girl,  who  glared 
hatred  across  at  her.  And  in  Billy's  eyes  she  saw  moody 
anger  smoldering.  The  eyes  were  more  sullen,  more  hand- 
some than  ever,  and  clouds  and  veils  and  lights  and  shad- 
ows shifted  and  deepened  in  the  blue  of  them  until  they 
gave  her  a  sense  of  unfathomable  depth.  He  had  stopped 
talking,  and  he  made  no  effort,  to  talk. 

"Don't  start  a  rough  house,  Bill,"  Bert  cautioned. 
"They're  from  across  the  bay  an'  they  don't  know  you, 
that's  all." 

Bert  stood  up  suddenly,  stepped  over  to  the  other  table, 
Whispered  briefly,  and  came  back.  Every  face  at  the  table 
was  turned  on  Billy.  The  offender  arose  brokenly,  shook 
off  the  detaining  hand  of  his  girl,  and  came  over.  He  was 
a  large  man,  with  a  hard,  malignant  face  and  bitter  eyes. 
Also,  he  was  a  subdued  man. 

"You're  Big  Bill  Roberts,"  he  said  thickly,  clinging  to 
the  table  as  he  reeled.  "I  take  my  hat  off  to  you.  I  apolo- 
gize. I  admire  your  taste  in  skirts,  an'  take  it  from  me 
that's  a  compliment;  but  I  didn't  know  who  you  was.  If 
I'd  knowed  you  was  Bill  Roberts  there  wouldn't  been  a 
peep  from  my  fly-trap.  D'ye  get  me?  I  apologize.  Will 
you  shake  hands  ? ' ' 

Gruffly,  Billy  said,  "It's  all  right — forget  it,  sport;"  and 


26  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

sullenly  he  shook  hands  and  with  a  slow,  massive  move- 
ment thrust  the  other  back  toward  his  own  table. 

Saxon  was  glowing.  Here  was  a  man,  a  protector,  some- 
thing to  lean  against,  of  whom  even  the  Butchertown  toughs 
were  afraid  as  soon  as  his  name  was  mentioned. 


CHAPTER  IV 

AFTER  dinner  there  were  two  dances  in  the  pavilion,  anc^ 
then  the  band  led  the  way  to  the  race  track  for  the  games. 
The  dancers  followed,  and  all  through  the  grounds  the 
picnic  parties  left  their  tables  to  join  in.  Five  thousand 
packed  the  grassy  slopes  of  ih?  amphitheater  and  swarmed 
inside  the  race  track.  Here,  first  of  the  events,  the  men 
were  lining  up  for  a  tug  of  war.  The  contest  was  between 
the  Oakland  Bricklayers  and  the  San  Francisco  Bricklay- 
ers, and  the  picked  braves,  huge  and  heavy,  were  taking 
their  positions  along  the  rope.  They  kicked  heel-holds  in 
the  soft  earth,  rubbed  tneir  hands  with  the  soil  from  under- 
foot, and  laughed  and  joked  with  the  crowd  that  surged 
about  them. 

The  judges  and  watchers  struggled  vainly  to  keep  back 
this  crowd  of  relatives  and  friends.  The  Celtic  blood  was 
up,  and  the  Celtic  faction  spirit  ran  high.  The  air  was 
filled  with  cries  of  cheer,  advice,  warning,  and  threat. 
Many  elected  to  leave  the  side  of  their  own  team  and  go 
to  the  side  of  the  other  team  with  the  intention  of  circum- 
venting foul  play.  There  were  as  many  women  as  men 
among  the  jostling  supporters.  The  dust  from  the  tram- 
pling, scuffling  feet  rose  in  the  air,  and  Mar*-  gasped  and 
coughed  and  begged  Bert  to  take  her  away.  But  he,  the 
imp  in  him  elated  with  the  prospect  of  trouble,  insisted  on 
urging  in  closer.  Saxon  clung  to  Billy,  who  slowly  and 
methodically  elbowed  and  shouldered  a  way  for  her. 

"No  place  for  a  girl,"  he  grumbled,  looking  down  at  her 
with  a  masked  expression  of  absent-mindedness,  while  his 
elbow  powerfully  crushed  on  the  ribs  of  a  big  Irishman 
who  gave  room.  "Things '11  break  loose  when  they  start 
pullin'.  They's  been  too  much  drink,  an'  you  know  what 
the  Micks  are  for  a  rough  house." 
27., 


28  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

Saxon  was  very  much  out  of  place  among  these  large- 
bodied  men  and  women.  She  seemed  very  small  and  child- 
like, delicate  and  fragile,  a  creature  from  another  race. 
Only  Billy's  skilled  bulk  and  muscle  saved  her.  He  was 
continually  glancing  from  face  to  face  of  the  women  and 
always  returning  to  study  her  face,  nor  was  she  unaware 
of  the  contrast  he  was  making. 

Some  excitement  occurred  a  score  of  feet  away  from 
them,  and  to  the  sound  of  exclamations  and  blows  a  surge 
ran  through  the  crowd.  A  large  man,  wedged  sidewise  in 
the  jam,  was  shoved  against  Saxon,  crushing  her  closely 
against  Billy,  who  reached  across  to  the  man's  shoulder 
with  a  massive  thrust  that  was  not  so  slow  as  usual.  An 
involuntary  grunt  came  from  the  victim,  who  turned  his 
head,  showing  sun-reddened  blond  skin  and  unmistakable 
angry  Irish  eyes. 

"What's  eatin'  yeh?"  he  snarled. 

"Get  off  your  foot;  you're  standin'  on  it,"  was  Billy's 
contemptuous  reply,  emphasized  by  an  increase  of 
thrust. 

The  Irishman  grunted  again  and  made  a  frantic  struggle 
to  twist  his  body  around,  but  the  wedging  bodies  on  either 
side  held  him  in  a  vise. 

"Ill  break  yer  ugly  face  for  yeh  in  a  minute,"  he  an- 
nounced in  wrath-thick  tones. 

Then  his  own  face  underwent  transformation.  The  snarl 
left  the  lips,  and  the  angry  eyes  grew  genial. 

"An'  sure  an'  it's  yerself,"  he  said.  "I  didn't  know  it 
was  yeh  a-shovin'.  I  seen  yeh  lick  the  Terrible  Swede,  if 
yeh  was  robbed  on  the  decision." 

"No,  you  didn't,  Bo,"  Billy  answered  pleasantly.  "You 
saw  me  take  a  good  beatin'  that  night.  The  decision  was 
all  right." 

The  Irishman  was  now  beaming.  He  had  endeavored  to 
pay  a  compliment  with  a  lie,  and  the  prompt  repudiation 
of  the  lie  served  only  to  increase  his  hero-worship. 

"Sure,  an'  a  bad  beatin'  it  was,"  he  acknowledged,  "but 
yeh  showed  the  grit  of  a  bunch  of  wildcats.  Soon  as  I 


THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON  29 

can  get  me  arm  free  I'm  goin'  to  shake  yeh  by  the  hand 
an'  help  yeh  aise  yer  young  lady." 

Frustrated  in  the  struggle  to  get  the  crowd  back,  the 
referee  fired  his  revolver  in  the  air,  and  the  tug-of-war  was 
on.  Pandemonium  broke  loose.  Saxon,  protected  by  the 
two  big  men,  was  near  enough  to  the  front  to  see  much 
that  ensued.  The  men  on  the  rope  pulled  and  strained 
till  their  faces  were  red  with  effort  and  their  joints  crackled. 
The  rope  was  new,  and,  as  their  hands  slipped,  their  wives 
and  daughters  sprang  in,  scooping  up  the  earth  in  double 
handfuls  and  pouring  it  on  the  rope  and  the  hands  of 
their  men  to  give  them  better  grip. 

A  stout,  middle-aged  woman,  carried  beyond  herself  by 
the  passion  of  the  contest,  seized  the  rope  and  pulled  be- 
side her  husband,  encouraged  him  with  loud  cries.  A 
watcher  from  the  opposing  team  dragged  her  screaming 
away  and  was  dropped  like  a  steer  by  an  ear-blow  from  a 
partisan  from  the  woman's  team.  He,  in  turn,  went  down, 
and  brawny  women  joined  with  their  men  in  the  battle. 
Vainly  the  judges  and  watchers  begged,  pleaded,  yelled, 
and  swung  with  their  fists.  Men,  as  well  as  women,  were 
springing  in  to  the  rope  and  pulling.  No  longer  was  it 
team  against  team,  but  all  Oakland  against  all  San  Fran- 
cisco, festooned  with  a  free-for-all  fight.  Hands  overlaid 
hands  two  and  three  deep  in  the  struggle  to  grasp  the  rope. 
And  hands  that  found  no  holds,  doubled  into  bunches  of 
knuckles  that  impacted  on  the  jaws  of  the  watchers  who 
strove  to  tear  hand-holds  from  the  rope. 

Bert  yelped  with  joy,  while  Mary  clung  to  him,  mad  with 
fear.  Close  to  the  rope  the  fighters  were  going  down  and 
being  trampled.  The  dust  arose  in  clouds,  while  from  be- 
yond, all  around,  unable  to  get  into  the  battle,  could  be 
heard  the  shrill  and  impotent  rage-screams  and  rage-yells 
of  women  and  men. 

"Dirty  work,  dirty  work,"  Billy  muttered  over  and 
over;  and,  though  he  saw  much  that  occurred,  assisted  by 
the  friendly  Irishman  he  was  coolly  and  safely  working 
Saxon  back  out  of  the  melee. 


30  THE   VALLEY    OF   THE   MOON 

At  last  the  break  came.  The  losing  team,  accompanied 
by  its  host  of  volunteers,  was  dragged  in  a  rush  over  the 
ground  and  disappeared  under  the  avalanche  of  battling 
forms  of  the  onlookers. 

Leaving  Saxon  under  the  protection  of  the  Irishman  in 
an  outer  eddy  of  calm,  Billy  plunged  back  into  the  mix-up. 
•Several  minutes  later  he  emerged  with  the  missing  couple 
— Bert  bleeding  from  a  blow  on  the  ear,  but  hilarious,  and 
Mary  rumpled  and  hysterical. 

"This  ain't  sport,"  she  kept  repeating.  "It's  a  shame, 
a  dirty  shame." 

"We  got  to  get  outa  this,"  Billy  said.  "The  fun's  only 
commenced." 

"Aw,  wait,"  Bert  begged.  "It's  worth  eight  dollars. 
It's  cheap  at  any  price.  I  ain't  seen  so  many  black  eyes 
and  bloody  noses  in  a  month  of  Sundays. ' ' 

"Well,  go  on  back  an'  enjoy  yourself,"  Billy  com- 
mended. "I'll  take  the  girls  up  there  on  the  side  hill 
where  we  can  look  on.  But  I  won't  give  much  for  your 
good  looks  if  some  of  them  Micks  lands  on  you." 

The  trouble  was  over  in  an  amazingly  short  time,  for 
from  the  judges'  stand  beside  the  track  the  announcer  was 
bellowing  the  start  of  the  boys '  foot-race ;  and  Bert,  disap- 
pointed, joined  Billy  and  the  two  girls  on  the  hillside  look- 
ing down  upon  the  track. 

There  were  boys'  races  and  girls'  races,  races  of  young 
women  and  old  women,  of  fat  men  and  fat  women,  sack 
races  and  three-legged  races,  and  the  contestants  strove 
around  the  small  track  through  a  Bedlam  of  cheering  sup- 
porters. The  tug-of-war  was  already  forgotten,  and  good 
nature  reigned  again. 

Five  young  men  toed  the  mark,  crouching  with  finger- 
tips to  the  ground  and  waiting  the  starter's  revolver-shot. 
Three  were  in  their  stocking-feet,  and  the  remaining  two 
wore  spiked  running-shoes. 

'  'Young  men 's  race, ' '  Bert  read  from  the  program.  ' ' An ' 
only  one  prize — twenty-five  dollars.  See  the  red-head  with 
the  spikes — the  one  next  to  the  outside.  San  Francisco's 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON  31 

set  on  him  winning.  He's  their  crack,  an'  there's  a  lot  of 
bets  up." 

"Who's  goin'  to  win?"  Mary  deferred  to  Billy's  su- 
perior athletic  knowledge. 

"How  can  I  tell?"  he  answered.  "I  never  saw  any  of 
sem  before.  But  they  all  look  good  to  me.  May  the  best 
one  win,  that's  all." 

The  revolver  was  fired,  and  the  five  runners  were  off 
and  away.  Three  were  outdistanced  at  the  start.  Red- 
head led,  with  a  black-haired  young  man  at  his  shoulder, 
and  it  was  plain  that  the  race  lay  between  these  two.  Half- 
way around,  the  black-haired  one  took  the  lead  in  a  spurt 
that  was  intended  to  last  to  the  finish.  Ten  feet  he  gained, 
nor  could  Red-head  cut  it  down  an  inch. 

' '  The  boy 's  a  streak, ' '  Billy  commented.  ' '  He  ain  't  try- 
in'  his  hardest,  an'  Red-head's  just  bustin'  himself." 

Still  ten  feet  in  the  lead,  the  black-haired  one  breasted 
the  tape  in  a  hubbub  of  cheers.  Yet  yells  of  disapproval 
could  be  distinguished.  Bert  hugged  himself  with  joy. 

"Mm- mm,"  he  gloated.  "Ain't  Frisco  sore?  Watch 
out  for  fireworks  now.  See!  He's  bein'  challenged.  The 
judges  ain't  pay  in'  him  the  money.  An'  he's  got  a  gang 
behind  him  Oh!  Oh!  Oh!  Ain't  had  so  much  fun  since 
my  old  woman  broke  her  leg!" 

"Why  don't  they  pay  him,  Billy?"  Saxon  asked.  "He 
won." 

"The Frisco  bunch  is  challengin'  him  for  a  professional," 
Billy  elucidated.  "That's  what  they're  all  beefin'  about. 
But  it  ain't  right.  They  all  ran  for  that  money,  so  they're 
all  professional." 

The  crowd  surged  and  argued  and  roared  in  front  of 
the  judges'  stand.  The  stand  was  a  rickety,  two-story  af- 
fair, the  second  story  open  at  the  front,  and  here  the 
judges  could  be  seen  debating  as  heatedly  as  the  crowd 
beneath  them. 

"There  she  starts!"  Bert  cried.  "Oh,  you  rough-house!" 

The  black-haired  racer,  backed  by  a  dozen  supporters, 
was  climbing  the  outside  stairs  to  the  judges. 


32  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

"The  purse-holder's  his  friend,"  Billy  said.  "See,  he's 
paid  him,  an'  some  of  the  judges  is  willin'  an'  some  are 
beefin'.  An'  now  that  other  gang's  going  up — they're  Red- 
head's." He  turned  to  Saxon  with  a  reassuring  smile. 
"We're  well  out  of  it  this  time.  There's  goin'  to  be  rough 
stuff  doAvn  there  in  a  minute." 

"The  judges  are  tryin'  to  make  him  give  the  money 
back, ' '  Bert  explained.  ' '  An '  if  he  don 't  the  other  gang  '11 
take  it  away  from  him.  See!  They're  reachin'  for  it 
now. ' ' 

High  above  his  head,  the  winner  held  the  roll  of  paper 
containing  the  twenty-five  silver  dollars.  His  gang,  around 
him,  was  shouldering  back  those  who  tried  to  seize  the 
money.  No  blows  had  been  struck  yet,  but  the  struggle 
increased  until  the  frail  structure  shook  and  swayed.  From 
the  crowd  beneath  the  winner  was  variously  addressed: 
"Give  it  back,  you  dog!"  "Hang  on  to  it,  Tim!"  "You 
won  fair,  Timmy!"  "Give  it  back,  you  dirty  robber!" 
Abuse  unprintable  as  well  as  friendly  advice  was  hurled 
at  him. 

The  struggle  grew  more  violent.  Tim's  supporters 
strove  to  hold  him  off  the  floor  so  that  his  hand  would  still 
be  above  the  grasping  hands  that  shot  up.  Once,  for  an 
instant,  his  arm  was  jerked  down.  Again  it  went  up.  But 
evidently  the  paper  had  broken,  and  with  a  last  desperate 
effort,  before  he  went  down,  Tim  flung  the  coin  out  in  a 
silvery  shower  upon  the  heads  of  the  crowd  beneath.  Then 
ensued  a  weary  period  of  arguing  and  quarreling. 

"I  wish  they'd  finish,  so  as  we  could  get  back  to  the 
dancin',"  Mary  complained.  "This  ain't  no  fun." 

Slowly  and  painfully  the  judges'  stand  was  cleared,  and 
an  announcer,  stepping  to  the  front  of  the  stand,  spread 
his  arms  appealing  for  silence.  The  angry  clamor  died 
down. 

"The  judges  have  decided,"  he  shouted,  "that  this  day 
of  good  fellowship  an'  brotherhood " 

' '  Hear !  Hear ! ' '  Many  of  the  cooler  headc  applauded, 
1 ' That 's  the  stuff ! "  "No  fightin ' ! "  " Nc  hsnl  f eelin 's ! " 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON  33 

"An*  therefore,"  the  announcer  became  audible  again, 
J<the  judges  have  decided  to  put  up  another  purse  of 
twenty-five  dollars  an'  run  the  race  over  again!" 

"An'  Tim?"  bellowed  scores  of  throats.  "What  about 
Tim ? "  ' ' He 's  been  robbed ! "  "The  judges  is  rotten ! ' * 

Again  the  announcer  stilled  the  tumult  with  his  arm 
appeal. 

,  "The  judges  have  decided,  for  the  sake  of  good  feelin', 
that  Timothy  McManus  will  also  run.  If  he  wins,  the 
money's  his." 

"Now  wouldn't  that  jar  you?"  Billy  grumbled  disgust- 
edly. ' '  If  Tim 's  eligible  now,  he  was  eligible  the  first  time. 
An'  if  he  was  eligible  the  first  time,  then  the  money  was 
his." 

"Red-head '11  bust  himself  wide  open  this  time,"  Bert 
jubilated. 

"An'  so  will  Tim,"  Billy  rejoined.  "You  can  bet  he 'a 
mad  clean  through,  and  he  '11  let  out  the  links  he  was  holdin ' 
in  last  time." 

Another  quarter  of  an  hour  was  spent  in  clearing  the 
track  of  the  excited  crowd,  and  this  time  only  Tim  and 
Red-head  toed  the  mark.  The  other  three  young  men  had 
abandoned  the  contest. 

The  leap  of  Tim,  at  the  report  of  the  revolver,  put  him  a 
clean  yard  in  the  lead. 

"I  guess  he's  professional,  all  right,  all  right,"  Billy  re- 
marked. "An'  just  look  at  him  go!" 

Half-way  around,  Tim  led  by  fifty  feet,  and,  running 
swiftly,  maintaining  the  same  lead,  he  came  down  the  home- 
stretch an  easy  winner.  When  directly  beneath  the  group 
on  the  hillside,  the  incredible  and  unthinkable  happened. 
Standing  close  to  the  inside  edge  of  the  track  was  a  dapper 
young  man  with  a  light  switch  cane.  He  was  distinctly 
out  of  place  in  such  a  gathering,  for  upon  him  was  no  ear- 
mark of  the  working  class.  Afterward,  Bert  was  of  the 
opinion  that  he  looked  like  a  swell  dancing  master,  while 
Billy  called  him  "the  dude." 

So  far  as  Timothy  McManus  was  concerned,  the  dapper 


34  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

young  man  was  destiny ;  for  as  Tim  passed  him,  the  young 
man,  with  utmost  deliberation,  thrust  his  cane  between 
Tim's  flying  legs.  Tim  sailed  through  the  air  in  a  head- 
long pitch,  struck  spread-eagled  on  his  face,  and  plowed 
along  in  a  cloud  of  dust. 

There  was  an  instant  of  vast  and  gasping  silence.  The 
young  man,  too,  seemed  petrified  by  the  ghastliness  of  hiu 
deed.  It  took  an  appreciable  interval  of  time  for  him,  as 
well  as  for  the  onlookers,  to  realize  what  he  had  done. 
They  recovered  first,  and  from  a  thousand  throats  the  wild 
Irish  yell  went  up.  Eed-head  won  the  race  without  a  cheer. 
The  storm  center  had  shifted  to  the  young  man  with  the 
cane.  After  the  yell,  he  had  one  moment  of  indecision; 
then  he  turned  and  darted  up  the  track. 

' '  Go  it,  sport ! ' '  Bert  cheered,  waving  his  hat  in  the  air, 
"You're  the  goods  for  me!  Who'd  a-thought  it?  Who'd 
a- thought  it?  Say! — wouldn't  it,  now?  Just  wouldn't 
it?" 

"Phew!  He's  a  streak  himself,"  Billy  admired.  "But 
what  did  he  do  it  for  ?  Pie 's  no  bricklayer. ' ' 

Like  a  frightened  rabbit,  the  mad  roar  at  his  heels,  the 
young  man  tore  up  the  track  to  an  open  space  on  the  hill- 
side, up  which  he  clawed  and  disappeared  among  the  trees, 
Behind  him  toiled  a  hundred  vengeful  runners. 

"It's  too  bad  he's  missing  the  rest  of  it,"  Billy  said. 
"Look  at  'em  goin'  to  it." 

Bert  was  beside  himself.  He  leaped  up  and  down  and 
cried  continuously: 

"Look  at  'em!    Look  at  'em!    Look  at  'em!" 

The  Oakland  faction  was  outraged.  Twice  had  its  favor* 
ite  runner  been  jobbed  out  of  the  race.  This  last  was  only 
another  vile  trick  of  the  Frisco  faction.  So  Oakland  doubled 
its  brawny  fists  and  swung  into  San  Francisco  for  blood. 
And  San  Francisco,  consciously  innocent,  was  no  less  will- 
ing to  join  issues.  To  be  charged  with  such  a  crime  was 
no  less  monstrous  than  the  crime  itself.  Besides,  for  too 
many  tedious  hours  had  the  Irish  heroically  suppressed 
themselves.  Five  thousands  of  them  exploded  into  joyous 


THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON  35 

battle.  The  women  joined  with  them.  The  whole  amphi- 
theater was  filled  with  the  conflict.  There  were  rallies, 
retreats,  charges,  and  counter-charges.  Weaker  groups 
were  forced  fighting  up  the  hillsides.  Other  groups,  bested, 
fled  among  the  trees  to  carry  on  guerrilla  warfare,  emerg- 
ing in  sudden  dashes  to  overwhelm  isolated  enemies.  Half 
a  dozen  special  policemen,  hired  by  the  Weasel  Park  man- 
agement, received  an  impartial  trouncing  from  both  sides. 

" Nobody's  the  friend  of  a  policeman,"  Bert  chortled, 
dabbing  his  handkerchief  to  his  injured  ear,  which  still 
bled. 

The  bushes  crackled  behind  him,  and  he  sprang  aside 
to  let  the  locked  forms  of  two  men  go  by,  rolling  over  and 
over  down  the  hill,  each  striking  when  uppermost,  and 
followed  by  a  screaming  woman  who  rained  blows  on  the 
one  who  was  patently  not  of  her  clan. 

The  judges,  in  the  second  story  of  the  stand,  valiantly 
withstood  a  fierce  assault  until  the  frail  structure  toppled 
to  the  ground  in  splinters. 

" What's  that  woman  doing?"  Saxon  asked,  calling  at- 
tention to  an  elderly  woman  beneath  them  on  the  track, 
who  had  sat  down  and  was  pulling  from  her  foot  an  elas- 
tic-sided shoe  of  generous  dimensions. 

"Goin'  swimming,"  Bert  chuckled,  as  the  stocking  fol- 
lowed. 

They  watched,  fascinated.  The  shoe  was  pulled  on  again 
over  the  bare  foot.  Then  the  woman  slipped  a  rock  the 
size  of  her  fist  into  the  stocking,  and,  brandishing  this 
ancient  and  horrible  weapon,  lumbered  into  the  nearest 
fray. 

"Oh! — Oh! — Oh!"  Bert  screamed,  with  every  blow  she 
struck.  "Hey,  old  flannel-mouth!  Watch  out!  You'll 
get  yours  in  a  second.  Oh !  Oh !  A  peach !  Did  you  see 
it?  Hurray  for  the  old  lady!  Look  at  her  tearin'  into 
'em!  Watch  out  old  girl!  .  .  .  Ah-h-h." 

His  voice  died  away  regretfully,  as  the  one  with  the 
stocking,  whose  hair  had  been  clutched  from  behind  by 
another  Amazon,  was  whirled  about  in  a  dizzy  semicircle. 


36  THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

Vainly  Mary  clung  to  his  arm,  shaking  him  back  and 
forth  and  remonstrating. 

* '  Can 't  you  be  sensible  ? "  she  cried.  ' '  It 's  awful !  I  tell 
you  it's  awful!" 

But  Bert  was  irrepressible. 

"Go  it,  old  girl!"  he  encouraged.  "You  win!  Me  for 
you  every  time!  Now 's  your  chance!  Swat!  Oh!  My! 
A  peach!  A  peach!" 

"It's  the  biggest  rough-house  I  ever  saw,"  Billy  con- 
fided to  Saxon.  "It  sure  takes  the  Micks  to  mix  it.  But 
what  did  that  duue  wanta  do  it  for?  That's  what  gets 
me.  He  wasn't  a  bricklayer — not  even  a  workingman — 
just  a  regular  sissy  dude  that  didn't  know  a  livin'  soul  in 
the  grounds.  But  if  he  wanted  to  raise  a  rough-house  he 
certainly  done  it.  Look  at  'em.  They're  fightin'  every- 
where. ' ' 

He  broke  into  sudden  laughter,  so  hearty  that  the  tears 
came  into  his  eyes. 

"What  is  it?"  Saxon  asked,  anxious  not  to  miss  any- 
thing. 

"  It 's  that  dude, ' '  Billy  explained  between  gusts.  ' '  What 
did  he  wanta  do  it  for  ?  That 's  what  gets  my  goat.  What  'd 
he  wanta  do  it  for?" 

There  was  more  crashing  in  the  brush,  and  two  women 
erupted  upon  the  scene,  one  in  flight,  the  other  pursuing. 
Almost  ere  they  could  realize  it,  the  little  group  found 
itself  merged  in  the  astounding  conflict  that  covered,  if  not 
the  face  of  creation,  at  least  all  the  visible  landscape  of 
Weasel  Park. 

The  fleeing  woman  stumbled  in  rounding  the  end 
of  a  picnic  bench,  and  would  have  been  caught  had 
she  not  seized  Mary 's  arm  to  recover  balance,  and  then 
flung  Mary  full  into  the  arms  of  the  woman  who 
pursued.  This  woman,  largely  built,  middle-aged,  and 
too  irate  to  comprehend,  clutched  Mary's  hair  by  one 
hand  and  lifted  the  other  to  smack  her.  Before  the 
blow  could  fall,  Billy  had  seized  both  the  woman's 
wrists. 


THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON  37 

"Come  on,  old  girl,  cut  it  out,"  he  said  appeasingly. 
"You're  in  wrong.  She  ain't  done  nothin'. " 

Then  the  woman  did  a  strange  thing.  Making  no  resist- 
ance, but  maintaining  her  hold  on  the  girl's  hair,  she  stood 
still  and  calmly  began  to  scream.  The  scream  was  hideously 
compounded  of  fright  and  fear.  Yet  in  her  face  was 
neither  fright  nor  fear.  She  regarded  Billy  coolly  and 
appraisingly,  as  if  to  see  how  he  took  it — her  scream 
merely  the  cry  to  the  clan  for  help. 

"Aw,  shut  up,  you  battleax!"  Bert  vociferated,  trying 
to  drag  her  off  by  the  shoulders. 

The  result  was  that  the  four  rocked  back  and  forth, 
while  the  woman  calmly  went  on  screaming.  The  scream 
became  touched  with  triumph  as  more  crashing  was  heard 
in  the  brush. 

Saxon  saw  Billy's  slow  eyes  glint  suddenly  to  the  hard- 
ness of  steel,  and  at  the  same  time  she  saw  him  put  pres- 
sure on  his  wrist-holds.  The  woman  released  her  grip  OK 
Mary  and  was  shoved  back  and  free.  Then  the  first  man 
of  the  rescue  was  upon  them.  He  did  not  pause  to  inquire 
into  the  merits  of  the  affair.  It  was  sufficient  that  he  saw 
the  woman  reeling  away  from  Billy  and  screaming  with 
pain  that  was  largely  feigned. 

"It's  all  a  mistake,"  Billy  cried  hurriedly.  "We  apolo- 
gize, sport " 

The  Irishman  swung  ponderously.  Billy  ducked,  cut- 
ting his  apology  short,  and  as  the  sledge-like  fist  passed 
over  his  head,  he  drove  his  left  to  the  other's  jaw.  The 
big  Irishman  toppled  over  sidewise  and  sprawled  on  the 
edge  of  the  slope.  Half -scrambled  back  to  his  feet  and  out 
of  balance,  he  was  caught  by  Bert's  fist,  and  this  time 
went  clawing  down  the  slope  that  was  slippery  with  short, 
dry  grass. 

Bert  was  redoubtable.  "That  for  you,  old  girl — my  com- 
pliments," was  his  cry,  as  he  shoved  the  woman  over  the 
edge  on  to  the  treacherous  slope.  Three  more  men  were 
emerging  from  the  brush. 

In  the  meantime,  Billy  had  put  Saxon  in  behind  the  pro- 


38  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

tection  of  the  picnic  table.  Mary,  who  was  hysterical,  had 
evinced  a  desire  to  cling  to  him,  and  he  had  sent  her 
sliding  across  the  top  of  the  table  to  Saxon. 

"Come  on  you  flannel-mouths!"  Bert  yelled  at  the  new- 
comers, himself  swept  away  by  passion,  his  black  eyes  flash- 
ing wildly,  his  dark  face  inflamed  by  the  too-ready  blood, 
"Come  on,  you  cheap  skates!  Talk  about  Gettysburg. 
We'll  show  you  all  the  Americans  ain't  dead  yet!" 

"Shut  your  trap — we  don't  want  a  scrap  with  the  girls 
here, ' '  Billy  growled  harshly,  holding  his  position  in  front 
of  the  table.  He  turned  to  the  three  rescuers,  who  were 
bewildered  by  the  lack  of  anything  visible  to  rescue.  "Go 
on,  sports.  We  don't  want  a  row.  You're  in  wrong 
They  ain't  nothin'  doin'  in  the  fight  line.  We  don't  wanta 
fight — d'ye  get  me?" 

They  still  hesitated,  and  Billy  might  have  succeeded  in 
avoiding  trouble  had  not  the%  man  who  had  gone  down 
the  bank  chosen  that  unfortunate  moment  to  reappear, 
crawling  groggily  on  hands  and  knees  and  showing  a  bleed- 
ing face.  Again  Bert  reached  him  and  sent  him  down- 
slope,  and  the  other  three,  with  wild  yells,  sprang  in  on 
Billy,  who  punched,  shifted  position,  ducked  and  punched, 
and  shifted  again  ere  he  struck  the  third  time.  His  blows 
were  clean  and  hard,  scientifically  delivered,  with  the  weight 
of  his  body  behind. 

Saxon,  looking  on,  saw  his  eyes  and  learned  more  about 
him.  She  was  frightened,  but  clear-seeing,  and  she  was 
startled  by  the  disappearance  of  all  depth  of  light  and 
shadow  in  his  eyes.  They  showed  surface  only — a  hard, 
bright  surface,  almost  glazed,  devoid  of  all  expression  save 
deadly  seriousness.  Bert 's  eyes  showed  madness.  The  eyes 
of  the  Irishmen  were  angry  and  serious,  and  yet  not  all 
serious.  There  was  a  wayward  gleam  in  them,  as  if  they 
enjoyed  the  fracas.  But  in  Billy's  eyes  was  no  enjoyment, 
It  was  as  if  he  had  certain  work  to  do  and  had  doggedly 
.settled  down  to  do  it. 

Scarcely  more  expression  did  she  note  in  the  face,  though 
there  was  nothing  in  common  between  it  and  the  one  she 


THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON  39 

had  seen  all  day.  The  boyishness  had  vanished.  This  face 
was  mature  in  a  terrifying,  ageless  way.  There  was  no 
anger  in  it.  Nor  was  it  even  pitiless.  It  seemed  to  have 
glazed  as  hard  and  passionlessly  as  his  eyes.  Something 
came  to  her  of  her  wonderful  mother's  tales  of  the  ancient 
Saxons,  and  he  seemed  to  her  one  of  those  Saxons,  and  she 
caught  a  glimpse,  on  the  wall  of  her  consciousness,  of  a 
long,  dark  boat,  with  a  prow  like  the  beak  of  a  bird  of 
prey,  and  of  huge,  half -naked  men,  wing-helmeted,  and  one 
of  their  faces,  it  seemed  to  her,  was  his  face.  She  did  not 
reason  this.  She  felt  it,  and  visioned  it  as  by  an  unthink- 
able clairvoyance,  and  gasped,  for  the  flurry  of  war  was 
over.  It  had  lasted  only  seconds.  Bert  was  dancing  on 
the  edge  of  the  slippery  slope  and  mocking  the  vanquished 
who  had  slid  impotently  to  the  bottom.  But  Billy  took 
charge. 

' '  Come  on,  you  girls, ' '  he  commanded.  ' '  Get  onto  your- 
self, Bert.  We  got  to  get  outa  this.  We  can't  fight  an 
army. ' ' 

He  led  the  retreat,  holding  Saxon's  arm,  and  Bert,  gig- 
gling and  jubilant,  brought  up  the  rear  with  an  indignant 
Mary  who  protested  vainly  in  his  unheeding  ears. 

For  a  hundred  yards  they  ran  and  twisted  through  the 
trees,  and  then,  no  signs  of  pursuit  appearing,  they  slowed 
down  to  a  dignified  saunter.  Bert,  the  trouble-seeker, 
pricked  his  ears  to  the  muffled  sound  of  blows  and  sobs, 
and  stepped  aside  to  investigate. 

"Oh!— look  what  I've  found!"  he  called. 

They  joined  him  on  the  edge  of  a  dry  ditch  and  looked 
down.  In  the  bottom  were  two  men,  strays  from  the  fight, 
grappled  together  and  still  fighting.  They  were  weeping 
out  of  sheer  fatigue  and  helplessness,  and  the  blows  they 
only  occasionally  struck  were  open-handed  and  ineffectual. 

"Hey,  you,  sport — throw  sand  in  his  eyes,"  Bert  coun- 
seled. "That's  it,  blind  him  an'  he's  your'n." 

"Stop  that!"  Billy  shouted  at  the  man,  who  was  fol- 
lowing instructions.  "Or  I'll  come  down  there  an'  beat 
you  up  myself.  It's  all  over — d'ye  get  me?  It's  all  over 


40  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

an'  everybody's  friends.  Shake  an'  make  up.  The  drinks 
are  on  both  of  you.  That's  right — here,  gimme  your  hand 
an'  I'll  pull  you  out." 

They  left  them  shaking  hands  and  brushing  each  other's 
clothes. 

' '  It  soon  will  be  over, ' '  Billy  grinned  to  Saxon.  ' '  I  know 
'em.  Fight's  fun  with  them.  An'  this  big  scrap's  made 
the  day  a  howlin '  success.  What  did  I  tell  you  ? — look  over 
at  that  table  there." 

A  group  of  disheveled  men  and  women,  still  breathing 
heavily,  were  shaking  hands  all  around. 

"Come  on,  let's  dance,"  Mary  pleaded,  urging  them  in 
the  direction  of  the  pavilion. 

All  over  the  park  the  warring  bricklayers  were  shaking 
hands  and  making  up,  while  the  open-air  bars  were  crowded 
with  the  drinkers. 

Saxon  walked  very  ilose  to  Billy.  She  was  proud  of 
him.  He  could  fight,  and  he  could  avoid  trouble.  In  all 
that  had  occurred  he  had  striven  to  avoid  trouble.  And, 
also,  consideration  for  her  and  Mary  had  been  uppermost 
in  his  mind. 

"You  are  brave,"  she  said  to  him. 

"It's  like  takin'  candy  from  a  baby,"  he  disclaimed 
"They  only  rough-house.  They  don't  know  boxin'. 
They're  wide  open,  an'  all  you  gotta  do  is  hit  'em.  It 
ain't  real  fightin',  you  know."  "With  a  troubled,  boyish 
look  in  his  eyes,  he  stared  at  his  bruised  knuckles.  "An' 
I'll  have  to  drive  team  to-morrow  with  'em,"  he  lamented. 
"Which  ain't  fun,  I'm  tellin'  you,  when  they  stiffen  up.'* 


CHAPTER  V 

AT  eight  o'clock  the  Al  Vista  band  played  "Home,  Sweet 
Home,"  and,  following  the  hurried  rush  through  the  twi- 
light to  the  picnic  train,  the  four  managed  to  get  double 
seats  facing  each  other.  "When  the  aisles  and  platforms 
were  packed  by  the  hilarious  crowd,  the  train  pulled  out 
for  the  short  run  from  the  suburbs  into  Oakland.  All  the 
car  was  singing  a  score  of  songs  at  once,  and  Bert,  his 
head  pillowed  on  Mary's  breast  with  her  arms  around  him, 
started  "On  the  Banks  of  the  Wabash."  And  he  sang  the 
song  through,  undeterred  by  the  bedlam  of  two  general 
fights,  one  on  the  adjacent  platform,  the  other  at  the  oppo- 
site end  of  the  car,  both  of  which  were  finally  subdued  by 
special  policemen  to  the  screams  of  women  and  the  crash 
of  glass. 

Billy  sang  a  lugubrious  song  of  many  stanzas  about  a 
cowboy,  the  refrain  of  which  was,  "Bury  me  out  on  the 
lone  pr-rairie." 

"That's  one  you  never  heard  before;  my  father  used 
to  sing  it,"  he  told  Saxon,  who  was  glad  that  it  was 
ended. 

She  had  discovered  the  first  flaw  in  him.  He  was  tone- 
deaf.  Not  once  had  he  been  on  the  key. 

"I  don't  sing  often,"  he  added. 

"You  bet  your  sweet  life  he  don't,"  Bert  exclaimed. 
"His  friends 'd  kill  him  if  he  did." 

"They  all  make  fun  of  my  singin',"  he  complained  to 
Saxon.  "Honest,  now,  do  you  find  it  as  rotten  as  all 
that?" 

"It's  .  .  .  it's  maybe  flat  a  bit,"  she  admitted  reluc- 
tantly. 

"It  don't  sound  flat  to  me,"  he  protested.    "It's  a  regu- 


42  THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

lar  josh  on  me.  I'll  bet  Bert  put  you  up  to  it.  You  sing 
something  now,  Saxon.  I  bet  you  sing  good.  I  can  tell  it 
from  lookin'  at  you." 

She  began  "When  the  Harvest  Days  Are  Over."  Bert 
and  Mary  joined  in ;  but  when  Billy  attempted  to  add  his 
voice  he  was  dissuaded  by  a  shin-kick  from  Bert.  Saxon 
sang  in  a  clear,  true  soprano,  thin  but  sweet,  and  she  was 
aware  that  she  was  singing  to  Billy. 

"Now  that  is  singing  what  is,"  he  proclaimed,  when 
she  had  finished.  "Sing  it  again.  Aw,  go  on.  You  do  it 
just  right.  It's  great." 

His  hand  slipped  to  hers  and  gathered  it  in,  and  as  she 
sang  again  she  felt  the  tide  of  his  strength  flood  warmingly 
through  her. 

"Look  at  'em  holdin'  hands,"  Bert  jeered.  "Just 
a-holdin'  hands  like  they  was  afraid.  Look  at  Mary  an' 
me.  Come  on  an'  kick  in,  you  cold-feets.  Get  together. 
If  you  don't,  it'll  look  suspicious.  I  got  my  suspicions 
already.  You're  framin'  somethin'  up." 

There  was  no  mistaking  his  innuendo,  and  Saxon  felt  her 
cheeks  flaming. 

"Get  onto  yourself,  Bert,"  Billy  reproved. 

' '  Shut  up ! "  Mary  added  the  weight  of  her  indignation, 
"You're  awfully  raw,  Bert  "Wanhope,  an'  I  won't  have 
anything  more  to  do  with  you — there ! ' ' 

She  withdrew  her  arms  and  shoved  him  away,  only  to 
receive  him  forgivingly  half  a  dozen  seconds  afterward. 

"Come  on,  the  four  of  us,"  Bert  went  on  irrepressibly. 
l"The  night's  young.  Let's  make  a  time  of  it — Pabst'3 
*Cafe  first,  and  then  some.  "What  you  say,  Bill?  What 
you  say,  Saxon?  Mary's  game." 

Saxon  waited  and  wondered,  half  sick  with  apprehen- 
sion of  this  man  beside  her  whom  she  had  known  so  short 
a  time. 

' '  Nope, ' '  he  said  slowly.  ' '  I  gotta  get  up  to  a  hard  day 's 
work  to-morrow,  and  I  guess  the  girls  has  got  to,  too." 

Saxon  forgave  him  his  tone-deafness.  Here  was  the  kind 
ol  man  she  always  had  known  existed.  It  was  for  some 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON  43 

such  man  that  she  had  waited.  She  was  twenty-two,  and 
her  first  marriage  offer  had  come  when  she  was  sixteen. 
The  last  had  occurred  only  the  month  before,  from  the 
foreman  of  the  washing-room,  and  he  had  been  good  and 
kind,  but  not  young.  But  this  one  beside  her — he  was 
strong  and  kind  and  good,  and  young.  She  was  too  young 
herself  not  to  desire  youth.  There  would  have  been  rest 
from  fancy  starch  with  the  foreman,  but  there  would  have 
been  no  warmth.  But  this  man  beside  her.  .  .  .  She 
caught  herself  on  the  verge  involuntarily  of  pressing  his 
hand  that  held  hers. 

"No,  Bert,  don't  tease;  he's  right,"  Mary  was  saying. 
"We've  got  to  get  some  sleep.  It's  fancy  starch  to-mor- 
row, and  all  day  on  our  feet." 

It  came  to  Saxon  with  a  chill  pang  that  she  was  surely 
older  than  Billy.  She  stole  glances  at  the  smoothness  of 
his  face,  and  the  essential  boyishness  of  him,  so  much 
desired,  shocked  her.  Of  course  he  would  marry  some  girl 
years  younger  than  himself,  than  herself.  How  old  was 
he?  Could  it  be  that  he  was  too  young  for  her? 
As  he  seemed  to  grow  inaccessible,  she  was  drawn  to- 
ward him  more  compellingly.  He  was  so  strong,  so 
gentle.  She  lived  over  the  events  of  the  day.  There 
was  no  flaw  there.  He  had  considered  her  and  Mary, 
always.  And  he  had  torn  the  program  up  and  danced  only 
with  her.  Surely  he  had  liked  her,  or  he  would  not  have 
done  it. 

She  slightly  moved  her  hand  in  his  and  felt  the  harsh 
contact  of  his  teamster  callouses.  The  sensation  was  exqui- 
site. He,  too,  moved  his  hand,  to  accommodate  the  shift 
of  hers,  and  she  waited  fearfully.  She  did  not  want  him 
to  prove  like  other  men,  and  she  could  have  hated  him  had 
he  dared  to  take  advantage  of  that  slight  movement  of  her 
fingers  and  put  his  arm  around  her.  He  did  not,  and  she 
flamed  toward  him.  There  was  fineness  in  him.  He  was 
neither  rattle-brained,  like  Bert,  nor  coarse  like  other  men 
she  had  encountered.  For  she  had  had  experiences,  not 
nice,  and  she  had  been  made  to  suffer  by  the  lack  of  what 


44  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

was  termed  chivalry,  though  she,  in  turn,  lacked  that  word 
to  describe  what  she  divined  and  desired. 

And  he  was  a  prizefighter.  The  thought  of  it  almost 
made  her  gasp.  Yet  he  answered  not  at  all  to  her  concep- 
tion of  a  prizefighter.  But,  then,  he  wasn't  a  prizefighter. 
He  had  said  he  was  not.  She  resolved  to  ask  him  about  it 
some  time  if  .  .  .  if  he  took  her  out  again.  Yet  there 
was  little  doubt  of  that,  for  when  a  man  danced  with  one 
girl  a  whole  day  he  did  not  drop  her  immediately.  Almost 
she  hoped  that  he  was  a  prizefighter.  There  was  a  deli- 
cious tickle  of  wickedness  about  it.  Prizefighters  were  such 
terrible  and  mysterious  men.  In  so  far  as  they  were  out  of 
the  ordinary  and  were  not  mere  common  workingmen  such 
as  carpenters  and  laundrymen,  they  represented  romance. 
Power  also  they  represented.  They  did  not  work  for 
bosses,  but  spectacularly  and  magnificently,  with  their  own 
might,  grappled  with  the  great  world  and  wrung  splendid 
living  from  its  reluctant  hands.  Some  of  them  even  owned 
automobiles  and  traveled  with  a  retinue  of  trainers  and 
servants.  Perhaps  it  had  been  only  Billy's  modesty  that 
made  him  say  he  had  quit  fighting.  And  yet,  there  were 
the  callouses  on  his  hands.  That  showed  he  had  quit. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THEY  said  good-bye  at  the  gate.  Billy  betrayed  awk- 
wardness that  was  sweet  to  Saxon.  He  was  not  one  of  the 
take-it-for-granted  young  men.  There  was  a  pause,  while 
she  feigned  desire  to  go  into  the  house,  yet  waited  in  secret 
eagerness  for  the  words  she  wanted  him  to  say. 

' '  When  am  I  goin '  to  see  you  again  ? "  he  asked,  holding 
her  hand  in  his. 

She  laughed  consentingly. 

' '  I  live  'way  up  in  East  Oakland, ' '  he  explained.  ' '  You 
know  there's  where  the  stable  is,  an'  most  of  our  teaming 
is  done  in  that  section,  so  I  don't  knock  around  down  this 

way  much.     But,  say "     His  hand  tightened  on  hers. 

"We  just  gotta  dance  together  some  more.  I'll  tell  you, 
the  Orindore  Club  has  its  dance  Wednesday.  If  you 
haven't  a  date — have  you?" 

"No,"  she  said. 

' '  Then  Wednesday.    What  time  11 1  come  for  you  ? ' ' 

And  when  they  had  arranged  the  details,  and  he  had 
agreed  that  she  should  dance  some  of  the  dances  with  the 
other  fellows,  and  said  good  night  again,  his  hand  closed 
more  tightly  on  hers  and  drew  her  toward  him.  She  re? 
•sisted  slightly,  but  honestly.  It  was  the  custom,  but  sh$ 
felt  she  ought  not  for  fear  he  might  misunderstand.  And 
.yet  she  wanted  to  kiss  him  as  she  had  never  wanted  to 
kiss  a  man.  When  it  came,  her  face  upturned  to  his,  she 
realized  that  on  his  part  it  was  an  honest  kiss.  There 
hinted  nothing  behind  it.  Rugged  and  kind  as  himself, 
it  was  virginal  almost,  and  betrayed  no  long  practice  in 
the  art  of  saying  good-bye.  All  men  were  not  brutes  after 
-all,  was  her  thought. 

41 


46  THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

"Good  night,"  she  murmured;  the  gate  screeched  under 
her  hand;  and  she  hurried  along  the  narrow  walk  that 
led  around  to  the  corner  of  the  house. 

"Wednesday,"  he  called  softly. 

"Wednesday,"  she  answered. 

But  in  the  shadow  of  the  narrow  alley  between  the  two 
houses  she  stood  still  and  pleasured  in  the  ring  of  his  foot- 
falls down  the  cement  sidewalk.  Not  until  they  had  quite 
died  away  did  she  go  on.  She  crept  up  the  back  stairs  and 
across  the  kitchen  to  her  room,  registering  her  thanks- 
giving that  Sarah  was  asleep. 

She  lighted  the  gas,  and,  as  she  removed  the  little  velvet 
hat,  she  felt  her  lips  still  tingling  with  the  kiss.  Yet  it 
had  meant  nothing.  It  was  the  way  of  the  young  men. 
They  all  did  it.  But  their  good-night  kisses  had  never 
tingled,  while  this  one  tingled  in  her  brain  as  well  as  on 
her  lips.  What  was  it?  What  did  it  mean?  With  a 
sudden  impulse  she  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass.  The 
eyes  were  happy  and  bright.  The  color  that  tinted  her 
cheeks  so  easily  was  in  them  and  glowing.  It  was  a  pretty 
reflection,  and  she  smiled,  partly  in  joy,  partly  in  appre- 
ciation, and  the  smile  grew  at  sight  of  the  even  rows  of 
strong  white  teeth.  Why  shouldn't  Billy  like  that  face? 
was  her  unvoiced  query.  Other  men  had  liked  it.  Other 
men  did  like  it.  Even  the  other  girls  admitted  she  was 
a  good-looker.  Charley  Long  certainly  liked  it  from  the 
way  he  made  life  miserable  for  her. 

She  glanced  aside  to  the  rim  of  the  looking-glass  where 
his  photograph  was  wedged,  shuddered,  and  made  a  moue 
of  distaste.  There  was  cruelty  in  those  eyes,  and  brutish- 
ness.  He  was  a  brute.  For  a  year,  now,  he  had  bullied 
her.  Other  fellows  were  afraid  to  go  with  her.  He  warned 
them  off.  She  had  been  forced  into  almost  slavery  to  his 
attentions.  She  remembered  the  young  bookkeeper  at  the 
laundry — not  a  workingman,  but  a  soft-handed,  soft-voiced 
gentleman — whom  Charley  had  beaten  up  at  the  corner 
because  he  had  been  bold  enough  to  come  to  take  her  to 
the  theater.  And  she  had  been  helpless.  For  his  own 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON  4? 

sake  she  had  never  dared  accept  another  invitation  to  go 
out  with  him. 

And  now,  Wednesday  night,  she  was  going  with  Billy. 
Billy!  Her  heart  leaped.  There  would  be  trouble,  but 
Billy  would  save  her  from  him.  She'd  like  to  see  him  try 
and  beat  Billy  up. 

With  a  quick  movement,  she  jerked  the  photograph  from 
its  niche  and  threw  it  face  down  upon  the  chest  of  drawers. 
It  fell  beside  a  small  square  case  of  dark  and  tarnished 
leather.  With  a  feeling  as  of  profanation  she  again  seized 
the  offending  photograph  and  flung  it  across  the  room  into 
a  corner.  At  the  same  time  she  picked  up  the  leather 
case.  Springing  it  open,  she  gazed  at  the  daguerreotype  of 
a  worn  little  woman  with  steady  gray  eyes  and  a  hopeful, 
pathetic  mouth.  Opposite,  on  the  velvet  lining,  done  in 
gold  lettering,  was,  CARLTON  FROM  DAISY.  She  read  it  rev- 
erently, for  it  represented  the  father  she  had  never  known, 
and  the  mother  she  had  so  little  known,  though,  she  could 
never  forget  that  those  wise  sad  eyes  were  gray. 

Despite  lack  of  conventional  religion,  Saxon's  nature  was 
deeply  religious.  Her  thoughts  of  God  were  vague  and 
nebulous,  and  there  she  was  frankly  puzzled.  She  could 
not  vision  God.  Here,  in  the  daguerreotype,  was  the  con* 
crete;  much  she  had  grasped  from  it,  and  always  therfl 
seemed  an  infinite  more  to  grasp.  She  did  not  go  to  church. 
This  was  her  high  altar  and  holy  of  holies.  She  came  to 
it  in  trouble,  in  loneliness,  for  counsel,  divination,  and 
comfort.  In  so  far  as  she  found  herself  different  from  the 
girls  of  her  acquaintance,  she  quested  here  to  try  to  identify 
her  characteristics  in  the  pictured  face.  Her  mother  had 
been  different  from  other  women,  too.  This,  forsooth, 
meant  to  her  what  God  meant  to  others.  To  this  she  strove 
to  be  true,  and  not  to  hurt  nor  vex.  And  how  little  she 
really  knew  of  her  mother,  and  of  how  much  was  conjec- 
ture and  surmise,  she  was  unaware ;  for  it  was  through 
many  years  she  had  erected  this  mother-myth. 

Yet  was  it  all  myth  ?  She  resented  the  doubt  with  quick 
jealousy,  and,  opening  the  bottom  drawer  of  the  chest, 


48  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

drew  forth  a  battered  portfolio.  Out  rolled  manuscripts, 
faded  and  worn,  and  arose  a  faint  far  scent  of  sweet-kept 
age.  The  writing  was  delicate  and  curled,  with  the  quaint 
fineness  of  half  a  century  before.  She  read  a  stanza  to 
herself: 

"Sweet  as  a  wind-lute's  airy  strains 

Your  gentle  muse  has  learned  to  sing, 
And  California's  boundless  plains 
Prolong  the  soft  notes  echoing." 

She  wondered,  for  the  thousandth  time,  what  a  wind- 
lute  was;  yet  much  of  beauty,  much  of  beyondness,  she 
sensed  of  this  dimly  remembered  beautiful  mother  of  hers. 
She  communed  a  while,  then  unrolled  a  second  manuscript. 
"To  C.  B.,"  it  read.  To  Carlton  Brown,  she  knew,  to  her 
father,  a  love-poem  from  her  mother.  Saxon  pondered  the 
opening  lines: 

"I  have  stolen  away  from  the  crowd  in  the  groves, 

Where  the  nude  statues  stand,  and  the  leaves  point  and  shiwr 
At  ivy-crowned  Bacchus,  the  Queen  of  the  Loves, 
Pandora  and  Psyche,  struck  voiceless  forever." 

This,  too,  was  beyond  her.  But  she  breathed  the  beauty 
of  it.  Bacchus,  and  Pandora  and  Psyche — talismans  to 
conjure  with !  But  alas !  the  necromancy  was  her  mother's. 
Strange,  meaningless  words  that  meant  so  much !  Her 
marvelous  mother  had  known  their  meaning.  Saxon  spelled 
the  three  words  aloud,  letter  by  letter,  for  she  did  not  dare 
their  pronunciation;  and  in  her  consciousness  glimmered 
august  connotations,  profound  and  unthinkable.  Her 
mind  stumbled  and  halted  on  the  star-bright  and  dazzling 
boundaries  of  a  world  beyond  her  world  in  which  her 
mother  had  roamed  at  will.  Again  and  again,  solemnly,- 
she  went  over  the  four  lines.  They  were  radiance  and 
light  to  the  world,  haunted  with  phantoms  of  pain  and 
unrest,  in  which  she  had  her  being.  There,  hidden  among 
those  cryptic  singing  lines,  was  the  clue.  If  she  could  only 
grasp  it,  all  would  be  made  clear.  Of  this  she  was  sub- 


THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON  49 

limely  confident.  She  would  understand  Sarah's  sharp 
tongue,  her  unhappy  brother,  the  cruelty  of  Charley  Long, 
the  justness  of  the  bookkeeper's  beating,  the  day-long, 
month-long,  year-long  toil  at  the  ironing-board. 

She  skipped  a  stanza  that  she  knew  was  hopelessly  *)e- 
yond  her,  and  tried  again: 

"The  dusk  of  the  greenhouse  is  luminous  yet 
With  quivers  of  opal  and  tremors  of  gold; 
For  the  sun  is  at  rest,  and  the  light  from  the  we«t, 
Like  delicate  wine  that  is  mellow  and  old, 

"Flushes  faintly  the  brow  of  a  naiad  that  stands 

In  the  spray  of  a  fountain,  whose  seed-amethysts 
Tremble  lightly  a  moment  on  bosom  and  hands, 

Then  drip  in  their  basin  from  bosom  and  wrists." 

"It's  beautiful,  just  beautiful,"  she  sighed.  And  then, 
appalled  at  the  length  of  all  the  poem,  at  the  volume  "i 
the  mystery,  she  rolled  the  manuscript  and  put  it  away. 
Again  she  dipped  in  the  drawer,  seeking  the  clue  among 
the  cherished  fragments  of  her  mother's  hidden  soul. 

This  time  it  was  a  small  package,  wrapped  in  tissue  paper 
and  tied  with  ribbon.  She  opened  it  carefully,  with  the 
deep  gravity  and  circumstance  of  a  priest  before  an 
altar.  Appeared  a  little  red-satin  Spanish  girdle,  whale- 
boned  like  a  tiny  corset,  pointed,  the  pioneer  finery  of  a 
frontier  woman  who  had  crossed  the  plains.  It  was  hand- 
made after  the  California-Spanish  model  of  forgotten  days. 
The  very  whalebone  had  been  home-shaped  of  the  raw  ma- 
terial from  the  whaleships  traded  for  in  hides  and  tallow. 
.  The  black  lace  trimming  her  mother  had  made.  The  triple 
edging  of  black  velvet  strips — her  mother's  hands  had  sewn 
the  stitches. 

Saxon  dreamed  over  it  in  a  maze  of  incoherent  thought. 
This  was  concrete.  This  she  understood.  This  she  wor- 
shiped as  man-created  gods  have  been  worshiped  on  less 
tangible  evidence  of  their  sojourn  on  earth. 

Twenty-two  inches  it  measured  around.  She  knew  it  out 
of  many  verifications.  She  stood  up  and  put  it  about  he* 


50  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

waist.  This  was  part  of  the  ritual.  It  almost  met.  Ifl 
places  it  did  meet.  "Without  her  dress  it  would  meet  every- 
where as  it  had  met  on  her  mother.  Closest  of  all,  this 
survival  of  old  California- Ventura  days  brought  Saxon  in 
touch.  Hers  was  her  mother's  form.  Physically,  she  was 
like  her  mother.  Her  grit,  her  ability  to  turn  off  work 
that  was  such  an  amazement  to  others,  were  her  mother's. 
Just  so  had  her  mother  been  an  amazement  to  her  genera- 
tion— her  mother,  the  toy-like  creature,  the  smallest  and 
the  youngest  of  the  strapping  pioneer  brood,  who  never- 
theless had  mothered  the  brood.  Always  it  had  been  her 
wisdom  that  was  sought,  even  by  the  brothers  and  sisters 
a  dozen  years  her  senior.  Daisy,  it  was,  who  had  put  her 
tiny  foot  down  and  commanded  the  removal  from  the  fever 
flatlands  of  Colusa  to  the  healthy  mountains  of  Ventura; 
•who  had  backed  the  savage  old  Indian-fighter  of  a  father 
into  a  corner  and  fought  the  entire  family  that  Vila  might 
marry  tho  man  of  her  choice;  who  had  flown  in  the  face 
of  the  fa^nily  and  of  community  morality  and  demanded 
the  divo?  ce  of  Laura  from  her  criminally  weak  husband ; 
and  who  on  the  other  hand,  had  held  the  branches  of  the 
family  together  when  only  misunderstanding  and  weak 
humanmss  threatened  to  drive  them  apart. 

The  Peacemaker  and  the  warrior!  All  the  old  tales 
troopeo  before  Saxon 's  eyes.  They  were  sharp  with  detail, 
for  she  had  visioned  them  many  times,  though  their  content 
was  of  things  she  had  never  seen.  So  far  as  details  were 
concerned,  they  were  her  own  creation,  for  she  had  never 
seen  an  ox,  a  wild  Indian,  nor  a  prairie  schooner.  Yet, 
palpitating  and  real,  shimmering  in  the  sun-flashed  dust 
iaf  ten  thousand  hoofs,  she  saw  pass,  from  East  to  West, 
across  a  continent,  the  great  hegira  of  the  land-hungry 
Anglo-Saxon.  It  was  part  and  fiber  of  her.  She  had  been 
nursed  on  its  traditions  and  its  facts  from  the  lips  of 
s&ose  who  had  taken  part.  Clearly  she  saw  the  long  wagon- 
train,  the  lean,  gaunt  men  who  walked  before,  the  youths 
goading  the  lowing  oxen  that  fell  and  were  goaded  to  their 
feet  to  fall  again.  And  through  it  all,  a  flying  shuttle, 


THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON  51 

weaving  the  golden  dazzling  thread  of  personality,  moved 
the  form  of  her  little,  indomitable  mother,  eight  years  old, 
and  nine  ere  the  great  traverse  was  ended,  a  necromancer 
and  a  law-giver,  willing  her  way,  and  the  way  and  the 
willing  always  good  and  right. 

Saxon  saw  Punch,  the  little,  rough-coated  Skye-terrier 
with  the  honest  eyes  (who  had  plodded  for  weary  months), 
gone  lame  and  abandoned;  she  saw  Daisy,  the  chit  of  a 
child,  hide  Punch  in  the  wagon.  She  saw  the  savage  old 
worried  father  discover  the  added  burden  of  the  several 
pounds  to  the  dying  oxen.  She  saw  his  wrath,  as  he  held 
Punch  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck.  And  she  saw  Daisy, 
between  the  muzzle  of  the  long-barreled  rifle  and  the  little 
dog.  And  she  saw  Daisy  thereafter,  through  days  of 
alkali  and  heat,  walking,  stumbling,  in  the  dust  of  the 
wagons,  the  little  sick  dog,  like  a  baby,  in  her  arms. 

But  most  vivid  of  all,  Saxon  saw  the  fight  at  Little 
Meadow — and  Daisy,  dressed  as  for  a  gala  day,  in  white, 
a  ribbon  sash  about  her  waist,  ribbons  and  a  round-comb 
in  her  hair,  in  her  hands  small  water-pails,  step  forth  into 
the  sunshine  on  the  flower-grown  open  ground  from  the 
wagon  circle,  wheels  interlocked,  where  the  wounded 
screamed  their  delirium  and  babbled  of  flowing  fountains, 
and  go  on,  through  the  sunshine  and  the  wonder-inhibition 
of  the  bullet-dealing  Indians,  a  hundred  yards  to  the  water- 
hole  and  back  again. 

Saxon  kissed  the  little,  red  satin  Spanish  girdle  passion- 
ately, and  wrapped  it  up  in  haste,  with  dewy  eyes,  aban- 
doning the  mystery  and  godhead  of  mother  and  all  the 
strange  enigma  of  living. 

In  bed,  she  projected  against  her  closed  eyelids  the  few 
rich  scenes  of  her  mother  that  her  child-memory  retained. 
It  was  her  favorite  way  of  wooing  sleep.  She  had  done  it 
all  her  life — sunk  into  the  death-blackness  of  sleep  with 
her  mother  limned  to  the  last  on  her  fading  consciousness. 
But  this  mother  was  not  the  Daisy  of  the  plains  r?or  of 
the  daguerreotype.  They  had  been  before  Saxon's  time. 
This  that  she  saw  nightly  was  an  older  mother,  broken  with 


52  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

insomnia  and  brave  with  sorrow,  who  crept,  always  crept, 
a  pale,  frail  creature,  gentle  and  unfaltering,  dying  from 
lack  of  sleep,  living  by  will,  and  by  will  refraining  from 
going  mad,  who,  nevertheless,  could  not  will  sleep,  and 
whom  not  even  the  whole  tribe  of  doctors  could  make  sleep. 
Crept — always  she  crept,  about  the  house,  from  weary  bed 
to  weary  chair  and  back  again  through  long  days  and 
weeks  of  torment,  never  complaining,  though  her  unfailing 
smile  was  twisted  with  pain,  and  the  wise  gray  eyes,  still 
wise  and  gray,  were  grown  unutterably  larger  and  pro- 
foundly deep. 

But  on  this  night  Saxon  did  not  win  to  sleep  quickly ;  the 
little  creeping  mother  came  and  went ;  and  in  the  intervals 
the  face  of  Billy,  with  the  cloud-drifted,  sullen,  handsome 
eyes,  burned  against  her  eyelids.  And  once  again,  as  sleep 
welled  up  to  smother  her,  she  put  to  herself  the  question: 
Is  this  the  man? 


CHAPTER   VII 

THE  work  m  the  ironing-room  slipped  off,  but  the  three 
days  until  "Wednesday  night  were  very  long.  She  hummed 
over  the  fancy  starch  that  flew  under  the  iron  at  an  as- 
tounding rate. 

"I  can't  see  how  you  do  it,"  Mary  admired.  "You'll 
make  thirteen  or  fourteen  this  week  at  that  rate." 

Saxon  laughed,  and  in  the  steam  from  the  iron  she  saw 
dancing  golden  letters  that  spelled  Wednesday. 

"What  do  you  think  of  Billy?"  Mary  asked. 

"I  like  him,"  was  the  frank  answer. 

"Well,  don't  let  it  go  farther  than  that." 

"I  will  if  I  want  to,"  Saxon  retorted  gaily. 

"Better  not,"  came  the  warning.  "You'll  only  make 
trouble  for  yourself.  He  ain't  marryin'.  Many  a  girl's 
found  that  out.  They  just  throw  themselves  at  his  head, 
toe." 

"I'm  not  going  to  throw  myself  at  him,  or  any  other 
man. ' ' 

"Just  thought  I'd  tell  you,"  Mary  concluded.  "A  word 
to  the  wise." 

Saxon  had  become  grave. 

"He's  not  .  .  .  not  .  .  ."  she  began,  then  looked 
the  significance  of  the  question  she  could  not  complete. 

"Oh,  nothin'  like  that — though  there's  nothin'  to  stop 
him.  He's  straight,  all  right,  all  right.  But  he  just  won't 
fall  for  anything  in  skirts.  He  dances,  an'  runs  around, 
an'  hae  a  good  time,  an'  beyond  that — nitsky.  A  lot  of 
'em 's  got  fooled  on  him.  I  bet  you  there 's  a  dozen  girls  in 
love  with  him  right  now.  An'  he  just  goes  on  turnin'  'em 
down.  There  was  Lily  Sanderson — you  know  her.  You 
seen  her  at  that  Slavonic  picnic  last  summer  at  Shellmound 
53, 


54  THE    VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

— that  tall,  nice-lookin'  blonde  that  was  with  Butch  Wil- 
lows?" 

"Yes,  I  remember  her,"  Saxon  said.  "What  about 
her?" 

"Well,  she'd  been  runnin'  with  Butch  Willows  pretty 
•teady,  an'  just  because  she  could  dance,  Billy  dances  a  lot 
with  her.  Butch  ain't  afraid  of  nothin'.  He  wades  right 
in  for  a  showdown,  an*  nails  Billy  outside,  before  every- 
body, an '  reads  the  riot  act.  An '  Billy  listens  in  that  slow, 
sleepy  way  of  his,  an'  Butch  gets  hotter  an'  hotter,  an' 
everybody  expects  a  scrap. 

"An'  then  Billy  says  to  Butch,  'Are  you  done?'  'Yes,* 
Butch  says;  'I've  said  my  say,  an'  what  are  you  go  in'  to 
do  about  it  ? '  An '  Billy  says — an '  what  d  'ye  think  he  said, 
with  everybody  lookin '  on  an '  Butch  with  blood  in  his  eye  ? 
Well,  he  said,  'I  guess  nothin',  Butch.'  Just  like  that. 
Butch  was  that  surprised  you  could  knocked  him  over  with 
a  feather.  'An'  never  dance  with  her  no  more?'  he  says. 
'Not  if  you  say  I  can't,  Butch,'  Billy  says.  Just  like 
that. 

"Well,  you  know,  any  other  man  to  take. water  the  way 
he  did  from  Butch — why,  everybody 'd  despise  him.  But 
not  Billy.  You  see,  he  can  afford  to.  He's  got  a  rep  as  a 
fighter,  an'  when  he  just  stood  back  an'  let  Butch  have  his 
way,  everybody  knew  he  wasn't  scared,  oi>  backin'  down, 
or  anything.  He  didn't  care  a  rap  foi  Lily  Sanderson, 
that  was  all,  an'  anybody  could  see  she  was  just  crazy 
after  him." 

The  telling  of  this  episode  caused  Saxon  no  little  worry. 
Hers  was  the  average  woman's  pride,  but  in  the  matter  of 
man-conquering  prowess  she  was  not  undmy  conceited. 
Billy  had  enjoyed  her  dancing,  and  she  wondered  if  that 
were  all.  If  Charley  Long  bullied  up  to  him  would  he 
let  her  go  as  he  had  let  Lily  Sanderson  go?  He  was  not 
a  marrying  man;  nor  could  Saxon  blind  her  eyes  to  the 
fact  that  he  was  eminently  marriageable.  No  wonder  the 
girls  ran  after  him.  And  he  was  a  man-subduei  as  well  as 
a  woman-subduer.  Men  liked  him.  Bert  Wanhope  seemed 


THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON  55 

actually  to  love  him.  She  remembered  the  Butchertown, 
tough  in  the  dining-room  at  Weasel  Park  who  had  come 
over  to  the  table  to  apologize,  and  the  Irishman  at  the 
tug-of-war  who  had  abandoned  all  thought  of  fighting  with 
Mm  the  moment  he  learned  his  identity. 

A  very  much  spoiled  young  man  was  a  thought  that 
flitted  frequently  through  Saxon's  mind;  and  each  time 
she  condemned  it  as  ungenerous.  He  was  gentle  in  tnat 
tantalizing  slow  way  of  his.  Despite  his  strength,  he  did 
not  walk  rough-shod  over  others.  There  was  the  affair  with 
Lily  Sanderson.  Saxon  analyzed  it  again  and  again.  He 
had  not  cared  for  the  girl,  and  he  had  immediately  stepped 
from  between  her  and  Butch.  It  was  just  the  thing  that 
Bert,  out  of  sheer  wickedness  and  love  of  trouble,  would 
not  have  done.  There  would  have  been  a  fight,  hard  feel- 
ings, Butch  turned  into  an  enemy,  and  nothing  profited  to 
Lily.  But  Billy  had  done  the  right  thing — done  it  slowly 
and  imperturbably  and  with  the  least  hurt  to  everybody. 
All  of  which  made  him  more  desirable  to  Saxon  and  less 
possible. 

She  bought  another  pair  of  silk  stockings  that  she  had 
hesitated  at  for  weeks,  and  on  Tuesday  night  sewed  and 
drowsed  wearily  over  a  new  shirtwaist  and  earned  com- 
plaint from  Sarah  concerning  her  extravagant  use  of  gas. 

Wednesday  night,  at  the  Orindore  dance,  was  not  all 
undiluted  pleasure.  It  was  shameless  the  way  the  girls 
made  up  to  Billy,  and,  at  times,  Saxon  found  his  easy  con- 
sideration for  them  almost  irritating.  Yet  she  was  com- 
pelled to  acknowledge  to  herself  that  he  hurt  none  of  the 
other  fellows'  feelings  in  the  way  the  girls  hurt  hers.  They 
all  but  asked  him  outright  to  dance  with  them,  and  little 
of  their  open  pursuit  of  him  escaped  her  eyes.  She  resolved 
that  she  would  not  be  guilty  of  throwing  herself  at  him, 
and  withheld  dance  after  dance,  and  yet  was  secretly  and 
thrillingly  aware  that  she  was  pursuing  the  right  tactics. 
She  deliberately  demonstrated  that  she  was  desirable  to 
other  men,  as  he  involuntarily  demonstrated  his  own  de- 
sirableness to  the  women. 


56  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

Her  happiness  came  when  he  coolly  overrode  her  objec- 
tions and  insisted  on  two  dances  more  than  she  had  allotted 
him.  And  she  was  pleased,  as  well  as  angered,  when  she 
chanced  to  overhear  two  of  the  strapping  young  cannery 

girls.    "The  way  that  little  sa wed-off  is  monopolizin' 

him,"  said  one.  And  the  other:  "You'd  think  she  might 
have  the  good  taste  to  run  after  somebody  of  her  own  age. ' ' 
s '  Cradle-snatcher, ' '  was  the  final  sting  that  sent  the  angry 
blood  into  Saxon's  cheeks  as  the  two  girls  moved  away, 
unaware  that  they  had  been  overheard. 

Billy  saw  her  home,  kissed  her  at  the  gate,  and  got  her 
«onsent  to  go  with  him  to  the  dance  at  Germania  Hall  on 
Friday  night. 

"I  wasn't  thinkin'  of  goin',"  he  said.  "But  if  you'll 
say  the  word  .  .  .  Bert's  goin'  to  be  there." 

Next  day,  at  the  ironing  boards,  Mary  told  her  that  she 
And  Bert  were  dated  for  Germania  Hall. 

' '  Are  you  goin '  ? "  Mary  asked. 

Saxon  nodded. 

"Billy  Roberts?" 

The  nod  was  repeated,  and  Mary,  with  suspended  iron, 
gave  her  a  long  and  curious  look. 

"Say,  an'  what  if  Charley  Long  butts  in?" 

Saxon  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

They  ironed  swiftly  and  silently  for  a  quarter  of  an 
hour. 

"Well,"  Mary  decided,  "if  he  does  butt  in  maybe  he'll 
get  his.  I'd  like  to  see  him  get  it — the  big  stiff!  It  all 
depends  how  Billy  feels — about  you,  I  mean." 

"I'm  no  Lily  Sanderson,"  Saxon  answered  indignantly. 
"I'll  never  give  Billy  Roberts  a  chance  to  turn  me  down." 

"You  will,  if  Charley  Long  butts  in.  Take  it  from  me, 
Saxon,  he  ain't  no  gentleman.  Look  what  he  done  to  Mr. 
Moody.  That  was  a  awful  beatin'.  An'  Mr.  Moody  only 
a  quiet  little  man  that  wouldn't  harm  a  fly.  Well,  he 
won't  find  Billy  Roberts  a  sissy  by  a  long  shot." 

That  night,  outside  the  laundry  entrance,  Saxon  found 
Charley  Long  waiting.  As  he  stepped  forward  to  greet 


THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON  57 

her  and  walk  alongside,  she  felt  the  sickening  palpitation 
that  he  had  so  thoroughly  taught  her  to  know.  The  blood 
ebbed  from  her  face  with  the  apprehension  and  fear  his 
appearance  caused.  She  was  afraid  of  the  rough  bulk  of 
the  man ;  of  the  heavy  brown  eyes,  dominant  and  confi- 
dent ;  of  the  big  blacksmith-hands  and  the  thick  strong 
fingers  with  the  hair-pads  on  the  backs  to  every  first  joint. 
He  was  unlovely  to  the  eye,  and  he  was  unlovely  to  all  her 
finer  sensibilities.  It  was  not  his  strength  itself,  but  the 
quality  of  it  and  the  misuse  of  it,  that  affronted  her.  The 
beating  he  had  given  the  gentle  Mr.  Moody  had  meant 
half-hours  of  horror  to  her  afterward.  Always  did  the 
memory  of  it  come  to  her  accompanied  by  a  shudder.  And 
yet,  without  shock,  she  had  seen  Billy  fight  at  Weasel  Park 
in  the  same  primitive  man-animal  way.  But  it  had  been 
different.  She  recognized,  but  could  not  analyze,  the  dif- 
ference. She  was  aware  only  of  the  brutishness  of  this 
man's  hands  and  mind. 

"You're  lookin'  white  an'  all  beat  to  a  frazzle,"  he  was 
saying.  ' '  Why  don 't  you  cut  the  work  ?  You  got  to  some 
time,  anyway.  You  can't  lose  me,  kid." 

"I  wish  I  could,"  she  replied. 

He  laughed  with  harsh  joviality.  "Nothin'  to  it,  Saxon. 
You're  just  cut  out  to  be  Mrs.  Long,  an'  you're  sure  goin' 
to  be." 

"I  wish  I  was  as  certain  about  all  things  as  you  are," 
she  said  with  mild  sarcasm  that  missed. 

"Take  it  from  me,"  he  went  on,  "there's  just  one  thing 
you  can  be  certain  of — an'  that  is  that  I  am  certain."  He 
was  pleased  with  the  cleverness  of  his  idea  and  laughed  ap- 
provingly. "When  I  go  after  anything  I  get  it,  an'  if 
anything  gets  in  between  it  gets  hurt.  D'ye  get  that?  It's 
me  for  you,  an'  that's  all  there  is  to  it,  so  you  might  as 
well  make  up  your  mind  and  go  to  workin'  in  my  home 
instead  of  the  laundry.  Why,  it's  a  snap.  There  wouldn't 
be  much  to  do.  I  make  good  money,  an '  you  wouldn  't  want 
for  anything.  You  know,  I  just  washed  up  from  work  an' 
skinned  over  here  to  tell  it  to  you  once  more,  so  you 


§8  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

wouldn't  forget.    I  ain't  ate  yet,  an'  that  shows  how  much 
I  think  of  you." 

"You'd  better  go  and  eat  then,"  she  advised,  though 
Bhe  knew  the  futility  of  attempting  to  get  rid  of  him. 

She  scarcely  heard  what  he  said.  It  had  come  upon  her 
suddenly  that  she  was  very  tired  and  very  small  and  very- 
weak  alongside  this  colossus  of  a  man.  Would  he  dog  her 
always?  she  asked  despairingly,  and  seemed  to  glimpse  a 
vision  of  all  her  future  life  stretched  out  before  her,  with 
always  the  form  and  face  of  the  burly  blacksmith  pursuing 
her. 

"Come  on,  kid,  an'  kick  in,"  he  continued.  "It'i. 
the  good  old  summer  time,  an'  that's  the  time  to  get  mar- 
ried." 

"But  I'm  not  going  to  marry  you,"  she  protested.  "I've 
told  you  a  thousand  times  already." 

"Aw,  forget  it.  You  want  to  get  them  ideas  out  of  your 
think-box.  Of  course,  you're  goin'  to  marry  me.  It's  a 
pipe.  An'  111  tell  you  another  pipe.  You  an'  me's  goin' 
acrost  to  Frisco  Friday  night.  There's  goin'  to  be  big 
doin's  with  the  Horseshoers. " 

"Only  I'm  not,"  she  contradicted. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  are,"  he  asserted  with  absolute  assurance. 
"We'll  catch  the  last  boat  back,  an'  you'll  have  one  fine 
time.  An'  I'll  put  you  next  to  some  of  the  good  dancers. 
Oh,  I  ain''t  a  pincher,  an'  I  know  you  like  dancin'." 

"But  I  tell  you  I  can't,"  she  reiterated. 

He  shot  a  glance  of  suspicion  at  her  from  under  the 
black  thatch  of  brows  that  met  above  his  nose  and  were  a? 
one  brow. 

'  '•  Why  can 't  you  ? ' ' 

"A  date,"  she  said. 

"Who's  the  bloke?" 

"None  of  your  business,  Charley  Long.  I've  got  a  date, 
that's  all." 

"I'll  make  it  my  business.  Remember  that  lah-de-dah 
bookkeeper  rummy  ?  Well,  just  keep  on  rememberin'  him 
an'  what  he  got" 


THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON  5» 

*'I  wish  you'd  leave  me  alone,"  she  pleaded  resentfully. 
M Can't  you  be  kind  just  for  once?" 

The  blacksmith  laughed  unpleasantly. 

"If  any  rummy  thinks  he  can  butt  in  on  you  an'  me, 
he'll  learn  different,  an'  I'm  the  little  boy  that'll  learn 
>m.  Friday  night,  en  ?  Where  ? ' ' 

"I  won't  tell  you." 

"Where?"  he  repeated. 

Her  lips  were  drawn  in  tight  silence,  and  in  her  cheeks 
were  little  angry  spots  of  blood. 

"Huh!— as  if  I  couldn't  guess!  Germania  Hall.  Well, 
111  be  there,  an'  I'll  take  you  home  afterward.  D'ye  get 
that?  An'  you'd  better  tell  the  rummy  to  beat  it  unless 
you  want  to  see  'm  get  his  face  hurt." 

Saxon,  hurt  as  a  prideful  woman  can  be  hurt  by  cavalier 
treatment,  was  tempted  to  cry  out  the  name  and  prowess 
of  her  new-found  protector.  And  then  came  fear.  This 
was  a  big  man,  and  Billy  was  only  a  boy.  That  was  the 
way  he  affected  her.  She  remembered  her  first  impression 
of  his  hands  and  glanced  quickly  at  the  hands  of  the  man 
beside  her.  They  seemed  twice  as  large  as  Billy's,  and  the 
mats  of  hair  seemed  to  advertise  a  terrible  strength.  No, 
Billy  could  not  fight  this  big  brute.  He  must  not.  And 
then  to  Saxon  came  a  wicked  little  hope  that  by  the  mys- 
terious and  unthinkable  ability  that  prizefighters  possessed, 
Billy  might  be  able  to  whip  this  bully  and  rid  her  of  him. 
With  the  next  glance  doubt  came  again,  for  her  eye  dwelt 
on  the  blacksmith's  broad  shoulders,  the  cloth  of  the  coat 
muscle-wrinkled  and  the  sleeves  bulging  above  the  biceps. 

"If  you  lay  a  hand  on  anybody  I'm  going  with 
again "  she  began. 

"Why,  they'll  get  hurt,  of  course,"  Long  grinned. 
"And  they'll  deserve  it,  too.  Any  rummy  that  comes 
between  a  fellow  an '  his  girl  ought  to  get  hurt. ' ' 

"But  I'm  not  your  girl,  and  all  your  saying  so  doesn't 
make  it  so." 

"That's  right,  get  mad,"  he  approved.  "I  like  you  for 
tiaat,  too.  You've  got  spunk  an'  fight.  I  like  to  see  it. 


eo          THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON 

It's  what  a  man  needs  in  his  wife — and  not  these  fat  cows 
of  women.  They're  the  dead  ones.  Now  you're  a  live  onef 
all  wool,  a  yard  long  and  a  yard  wide. ' ' 

She  stopped  before  the  house  and  put  her  hand  on  the 
gate. 

' '  Good-bye, ' '  she  said.    ' '  I  'm  going  in. ' ' 

"Come  on  out  afterward  for  a  run  to  Idora  Park,"  he 
suggested. 

"No,  I'm  not  feeling  good,  and  I'm  going  straight  to 
bed  as  soon  as  I  eat  supper." 

"Huh!"  he  sneered.  "Gettin'  in  shape  for  the  fling 
to-morrow  night,  eh?" 

With  an  impatient  movement  she  opened  the  gate  and 
stepped  inside. 

"I've  given  it  to  you  straight,"  he  went  on.  "If  you 
don't  go  with  me  to-morrow  night  somebody '11  get  hurt." 

"I  hope  it  will  be  you,"  she  cried  vindictively. 

He  laughed  as  he  threw  his  head  back,  stretched  his  big 
chest,  and  half-lifted  his  heavy  arms.  The  action  reminded 
her  disgustingly  of  a  great  ape  she  had  once  seen  in  a 
circus. 

"Well,  good-bye,"  he  said.  "See  you  to-morrow  night 
at  Germania  Hall." 

"I  haven't  told  you  it  was  Germania  Hall." 

"And  you  haven't  told  me  it  wasn't.  All  the  same,  I'll 
be  there.  And  I'll  take  you  home,  too.  Be  sure  anr  keep 
plenty  of  round  dances  open  for  me.  That's  right,  Get 
mad.  It  makes  you  look  fine." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  music  stopped  at  the  end  of  the  waltz,  leaving  Billy 
and  Saxon  at  the  big  entrance  doorway  of  the  ballroom. 
Her  hand  rested  lightly  on  his  arm,  and  they  were  promen- 
ading on  to  find  seats,  when  Charley  Long,  evidently  just 
arrived,  thrust  his  way  in  front  of  them. 

"So  you're  the  buttinsky,  eh?"  he  demanded,  his  face 
malignant  with  passion  and  menace. 

"Who? — me?"  Billy  queried  gently.  "Some  mistake, 
sport.  I  never  butt  in." 

"You're  goin'  to  get  your  head  beaten  off  if  you  don't 
make  yourself  scarce  pretty  lively." 

"I  wouldn't  want  that  to  happen  for  the  world,"  Billy 
drawled.  "Come  on,  Saxon.  This  neighborhood's  un- 
healthy for  us." 

He  started  to  go  on  with  her,  but  Long  thrust  in  front 
again. 

"You're  too  fresh  to  keep,  young  fellow,"  he  snarled. 
"You  need  saltin'  down.  D'ye  get  me?" 

Billy  scratched  his  head,  on  his  face  exaggerated  puzzle- 
ment. 

"No,  I  don't  get  you,"  he  said.  "Now  just  what  was 
it  you  said?" 

But  the  big  blacksmith  turned  contemptuously  away 
from  him  to  Saxon. 

"Come  here,  you.    Let's  see  your  program." 

"Do  you  want  to  dance  with  him?"  Billy  asked. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Sorry,  sport,  nothin'  doin',"  Billy  said,  again  making 
to  start  on. 

For  the  third  time  the  blacksmith  blocked  the  way. 
61 


62  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

"Get  off  your  foot,"  said  Billy.  "You're  standin'  OB 
it." 

Long  all  but  sprang  upon  him,  his  hands  clenched,  one 
arm  just  starting  back  for  the  punch  while  at  the  same 
instant  shoulders  and  chest  were  coming  forward.  But  he 
restrained  himself  at  sight  of  Billy's  unstartled  body  and 
cold  and  cloudy  eyes.  He  had  made  no  move  of  mind  or 
muscle.  It  was  as  if  he  were  unaware  of  the  threatened 
attack.  All  of  which  constituted  a  new  thing  in  Long's 
experience. 

"Maybe  you  don't  know  who  I  am,"  he  bullied. 

"Yep,  I  do,"  Billy  answered  airily.  "You're  a  record- 
breaker  at  rough-housin '. "  (Here  Long's  face  showed 
pleasure.)  "You  ought  to  have  the  Police  Gazette  dia- 
mond belt  for  rough-housin'  baby  buggies.  I  guess  there 
ain't  a  one  you're  afraid  to  tackle." 

" Leave 'm  alone,  Charley,"  advised  one  of  the  young 
men  who  had  crowded  about  them.  "He's  Bill  Roberts,. 
the  fighter.  You  know'm.  Big  Bill." 

"I  don't  care  if  he's  Jim  Jeffries.  He  can't  butt  in  on 
me  this  way." 

Nevertheless  it  was  noticeable,  even  to  Saxon,  that  the 
fire  had  gone  out  of  his  fierceness.  Billy's  name  seemed 
to  have  a  quieting  effect  on  obstreperous  males. 

"Do  you  know  him?"  Billy  asked  her. 

She  signified  yes  with  her  eyes,  though  it  seemed  she 
must  cry  out  a  thousand  things  against  this  man  who  so 
steadfastly  persecuted  her.  Billy  turned  to  the  blacksmith. 

''Look  here,  sport,  you  don't  want  trouble  with  me.  I've 
got  your  number.  Besides,  what  do  we  want  to  fight  for? 
Hasn't  she  got  a  say  so  in  the  matter?" 

"No,  she  hasn't.    This  is  my  affair  an'  yourn." 

Billy  shook  his  head  slowly.  "No;  you're  in  wrong.  I 
think  she  has  a  say  in  the  matter." 

"Well,  say  it  then,"  Long  snarled  at  Saxon.  "Who 're 
you  goin*  to  go  with? — me  or  him?  Let's  get  it  settled." 

For  reply,  Saxon  reached  her  free  hand  over  to  the  hand 
that  rested  on  Billyhs  arm. 


THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON  63 

"Nuff  said,"  was  Billy's  remark. 

Long  glared  at  Saxon,  then  transferred  the  glare  to  her 
protector. 

"I've  a  good  mind  to  mix  it  with  you  anyway,"  Long 
gritted  through  his  teeth. 

Saxon  was  elated  as  they  started  to  move  away.  Lily 
Sanderson's  fate  had  not  been  hers,  and  her  wonderful 
man-boy,  without  the  threat  of  a  blow,  slow  of  speech  and 
imperturbable,  had  conquered  the  big  blacksmith. 

"He's  forced  himself  upon  me  all  the  time,"  she  whis- 
pered to  Billy.  "He's  tried  to  run  me,  and  beaten  up 
every  man  that  came  near  me.  I  never  want  to  see  him 
again." 

Billy  halted  immediately.  Long,  who  was  reluctantly 
moving  to  get  out  of  the  way,  also  halted. 

"She  says  she  don't  want  anything  more  to  do  with 
you,"  Billy  said  to  him.  "An'  what  she  says  goes.  If  I 
get  a  whisper  any  time  that  you've  been  botherin'  her9 
I'll  attend  to  your  case.  D'ye  get  that?" 

Long  glowered  and  remained  silent. 

"D'ye  get  that?"  Billy  repeated,  more  imperatively. 

A  growl  of  assent  came  from  the  blacksmith. 

"All  right,  then.  See  you  remember  it.  An'  now  get 
outa  the  way  or  I  '11  walk  over  you. ' ' 

Long  slunk  back,  muttering  inarticulate  threats,  and 
Saxon  moved  on  as  in  a  dream.  Charley  Long  had  taken 
water.  He  had  been  afraid  of  this  smooth-skinned,  blue- 
eyed  boy.  She  was  quit  of  him — something  no  other  man 
had  dared  attempt  for  her.  And  Billy  had  liked  her  better 
than  Lily  Sanderson. 

Twice  Saxon  tried  to  tell  Billy  the  details  of  her  ac- 
quaintance with  Long,  but  each  time  was  put  off. 

"I  don't  care  a  rap  about  it,"  Billy  said  the  second 
time.  "You're  here,  ain't  you?" 

But  she  insisted,  and  when,  worked  up  and  angry 
by  the  recital,  she  had  finished,  he  patted  her  hand  sooth- 
ingly. 

"It's  all  right,  Saxon,"  he  said.    "He's  just  a  big  stiff. 


t64  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON 

I  took  his  measure  as  soon  as  I  looked  at  him.  He  won't 
bother  you  again.  I  know  his  kind.  He's  a  dog.  Rough- 
house?  He  couldn't  rough-house  a  milk  wagon." 

' '  But  how  do  you  do  it  ? "  she  asked  breathlessly.  ' '  Why 
are  men  so  afraid  of  you?  You're  just  wonderful." 

He  smiled  in  an  embarrassed  way  and  changed  the  sub- 
ject. 

"Say,"  he  said,  "I  like  your  teeth.  They're  so  white 
an'  regular,  an'  not  big,  an'  not  dinky  little  baby's  teeth 
•ither.  They  're  ...  they're  just  right,  an'  they  fit 
you.  I  never  seen  such  fine  teeth  on  a  girl  yet.  D'ye 
know,  honest,  they  kind  of  make  me  hungry  when  I  look 
at  'em.  They're  good  enough  to  eat." 

At  midnight,  leaving  the  insatiable  Bert  and  Mary  still 
dancing,  Billy  and  Saxon  started  for  home.  It  was  on  his 
suggestion  that  they  left  early,  and  he  felt  called  upon  to 
explain. 

"It's  one  thing  the  fightin'  game's  taught  me,"  he  said. 
"To  take  care  of  myself.  A  fellow  can't  work  all  day  and 
dance  all  night  and  keep  in  condition.  It's  the  same  way 
with  drinkin' — an'  not  that  I'm  a  little  tin  angel.  I  know 
what  it  is.  I've  been  soused  to  the  guards  an'  all  the  rest 
of  it.  I  like  my  beer — big  schooners  of  it;  but  I  don't 
drink  all  I  want  of  it.  I've  tried,  but  it  don't  pay.  Take 
that  big  stiff  to-night  that  butted  in  on  us.  He  ought  to 
had  my  number.  He's  a  dog  anyway,  but  besides  he  had 
beer  bloat.  I  sized  that  up  the  first  rattle,  an'  that's  the 
difference  about  who  takes  the  other  fellow's  number.  Con- 
dition, that's  what  it  is." 

"But  he  is  so  big,"  Saxon  protested.  "Why,  his  fists 
are  twice  as  big  as  yours. ' ' 

"That  don't  mean  anything.  What  counts  is  what's 
behind  the  fists.  He'd  turn  loose  like  a  buckin'  bronco, 
If  I  couldn't  drop  him  at  the  start,  all  I'd  do  is  to  keep 
away,  smother  up,  an'  wait.  An'  all  of  a  sudden  he'd  blow 
up — go  all  to  pieces,  you  know,  wind,  heart,  everything, 
and  then  I'd  have  him  where  I  wanted  him.  And  the 
point  is  he  knows  it,  too." 


THE    VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON  65 

"You're  the  first  prizefighter  I  ever  knew,"  Saxon  said, 
after  a  pause. 

"I'm  not  any  more,"  he  disclaimed  hastily.  "That's 
one  thing  the  fightin'  game  taught  me — to  leave  it  alone. 
It  don't  pay.  A  fellow  trains  as  fine  as  silk — till  he's  all 
silk,  his  skin,  everything,  and  he's  fit  to  live  for  a  hundred 
years;  an'  then  he  climbs  through  the  ropes  for  a  hard 
twenty  rounds  with  some  tough  customer  that's  just  as 
good  as  he  is,  and  in  those  twenty  rounds  he  frazzles  out 
all  his  silk  an '  blows  in  a  year  of  his  life.  Yes,  sometimes 
he  blows  in  five  years  of  it,  or  cuts  it  in  half,  or  uses  up 
all  of  it.  I've  watched  'em.  I've  seen  fellows  strong  as 
bulls  fight  a  hard  battle  and  die  inside  the  year  of  con- 
sumption, or  kidney  disease,  or  anything  else.  Now  what's 
the  good  of  it?  Money  can't  buy  what  they  throw  away. 
That 's  why  I  quit  the  game  and  went  back  to  drivin '  team, 
I  got  my  silk,  an'  I'm  goin'  to  keep  it,  that's  all." 

"It  must  make  you  feel  proud  to  know  you  are  the 
master  of  other  men,"  she  said  softly,  aware  herself  of 
pride  in  the  strength  and  skill  of  him. 

"It  does,"  he  admitted  frankly.  "I'm  glad  I  went  into 
the  game — just  as  glad  as  I  am  that  I  pulled  out  of  it. 
.  .  .  Yep,  it's  taught  me  a  lot — to  keep  my  eyes  open 
an'  my  head  cool.  Oh,  I've  got  a  temper,  a  peach  of  a 
temper.  I  get  scared  of  myself  sometimes.  I  used  to  be 
always  breakin'  loose.  But  the  fightin'  taught  me  to  keep 
down  the  steam  an'  not  do  things  I'd  be  sorry  for  after- 
ward." 

"Why,  you're  the  sweetest,  easiest  tempered  man  ) 
know,"  she  interjected. 

"Don't  you  believe  it.  Just  watch  me,  and  sometime 
you'll  see  me  break  out  that  bad  that  I  won't  know  what 
I'm  doin'  myself.  .  Oh,  I'm  a  holy  terror  when  I  get 
started ! ' ' 

This  tacit  promise  of  continued  acquaintance  gave  Saxon 
a  little  joy-thrill. 

"Say,"  he  said,  as  they  neared  her  neighborhood,  "what 
are  you  doin'  next  Sunday?" 


66  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

{ '  Nothing.    No  plans  at  all. ' ' 

"Well,  suppose  you  an'  me  go  buggy-riding  all  day  out 
in  the  hills?" 

She  did  not  answer  immediately,  and  for  the  moment 
she  was  seeing  the  nightmare  vision  of  her  last  buggy-ride ; 
I  of  her  fear  and  her  leap  from  the  buggy ;  and  of  the  long 
miles  and  the  stumbling  through  the  darkness  in  thin- 
soled  shoes  that  bruised  her  feet  on  every  rock.  And  then 
Jit  came  to  her  with  a  great  swell  of  joy  that  this  man 
beside  her  was  not  such  a  man. 

"I  love  horses,"  she  said.  "I  almost  love  them  better 
than  I  do  dancing,  only  I  don 't  know  anything  about  them. 
My  father  rode  a  great  roan  war-horse.  He  was  a  captain 
of  cavalry,  you  know.  I  never  saw  him,  but  somehow  I 
always  can  see  him  on  that  big  horse,  with  a  sash  around 
his  waist  and  his  sword  at  his  side.  My  brother  George 
has  the  sword  now,  but  Tom — he 's  the  brother  I  live  with — 
says  it  is  mine  because  it  wasn't  his  father's.  You  see. 
they're  only  my  half-brothers.  I  was  the  only  child  by 
my  mother's  second  marriage.  That  was  her  real  mar- 
riage— her  love-marriage,  I  mean." 

Saxon  ceased  abruptly,  embarrassed  by  her  own  gar- 
rulity; and  yet  the  impulse  was  strong  to  tell  this  young 
man  all  about  herself,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  these  far 
memories  were  a  large  part  of  her. 

"Go  on  an'  tell  me  about  it,"  Billy  urged.  "I  like  to 
hear  about  the  old  people  of  the  old  days.  My  people  was 
along  in  there,  too,  an'  somehow  I  think  it  was  a  better 
world  to  live  in  than  now.  Things  was  more  sensible  and 
natural.  I  don't  exactly  say  what  I  mean.  But  it's  like 
this:  I  don't  understand  life  to-day.  There's  the  labor 
unions  an'  employers'  associations,  an'  strikes,  an'  hard 
times,  an'  huntin'  for  jobs,  an'  all  the  rest.  Things  wasn't 
like  that  in  the  old  days.  Everybody  farmed,  an'  shot 
their  meat,  an'  got  enough  to  eat,  an'  took  care  of  their 
old  folks.  But  now  it's  all  a  mix-up  that  I  can't  under- 
stand. Mebbe  I'm  a  fool,  I  don't  know.  But,  anyway,  go 
ahead  an'  tell  us  about  your  mother." 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON  6? 

•'"Well,  you  see,  when  she  was  only  a  young  woman  she 
and  Captain  Brown  fell  in  love.  He  was  a  soldier  then, 
before  the  war.  And  he  was  ordered  East  for  the  war 
when  she  was  away  nursing  her  sister  Laura.  And  then 
came  the  news  that  he  was  killed  at  Shiloh.  And  she  mar- 
ried a  man  who  had  loved  her  for  years  and  years.  He 
was  a  boy  in  the  same  wagon-train  coming  across  the 
plains.  She  liked  him,  but  she  didn't  love  him.  And 
afterward  came  the  news  that  my  father  wasn't  killed  after 
all.  So  it  made  her  very  sad,  but  it  did  not  spoil  her  life. 
She  was  a  good  mother  and  a  good  wife  and  all  that,  but 
she  was  always  sad,  and  sweet,  and  gentle,  and  I  think  her 
Voice  was  the  most  beautiful  in  the  world." 

"She  was  game,  all  right,"  Billy  approved. 

"And  my  father  never  married.  He  loved  her  all  the 
time.  I've  got  a  lovely  poem  home  that  she  wrote  to  hinie 
It's  just  wonderful,  and  it  sings  like  music.  Well,  long> 
long  afterward  her  husband  died,  and  then  she  and  my 
father  made  their  love  marriage.  They  didn't  get  married 
until  1882,  and  she  was  pretty  well  along." 

More  she  told  him,  as  they  stood  by  the  gate,  and  Saxon 
tried  to  think  that  the  good-bye  kiss  was  a  trine  longer 
than  just  ordinary. 

"How  about  nine  o'clock?"  he  queried  across  the  gatet 
"Don't  bother  about  lunch  or  anything.  I'll  fix  all  that 
Mp.  You  just  be  ready  at  nin«." 


CHAPTER  IX 

SUNDAY  morning  Saxon  was  beforehand  in  getting  ready, 
,and  on  her  return  to  the  kitchen  from  her  second  journey 
,'to  peep  through  the  front  windows,  Sarah  began  her  cus- 
tomary attack. 

"It's  a  shame  an'  a  disgrace  the  way  some  people  can 
afford  silk  stockings,"  she  began.  "Look  at  me,  a-toilin' 
and  a-stewin'  day  an'  night,  and  I  never  get  silk  stockings 
• — nor  shoes,  three  pairs  of  them  all  at  one  time.  But 
there's  a  just  God  in  heaven,  and  there'll  be  some  mighty 
big  surprises  for  some  when  the  end  comes  and  folks  get 
passed  out  what's  comin'  to  them." 

Tom,  smoking  his  pipe  and  cuddling  his  youngest-born 
on  his  knees,  dropped  an  eyelid  surreptitiously  on  his  cheek 
in  token  that  Sarah  was  in  a  tantrum.  Saxon  devoted 
herself  to  tying  a  ribbon  in  the  hair  of  one  of  the  little 
girls.  Sarah  lumbered  heavily  about  the  kitchen,  washing 
and  putting  away  the  breakfast  dishes.  She  straightened 
her  back  from  the  sink  with  a  groan  and  glared  at  Saxon 
with  fresh  hostility. 

"You  ain't  sayin'  anything,  eh?  An'  'why  don't  you? 
Because  I  guess  you  still  got  some  natural  shame  in  you — 
a-runnin'  with  a  prizefighter.  Oh,  I've  heard  about  your 
goings-on  with  Bill  Roberts.  A  nice  specimen  he  is.  But 
just  you  wait  till  Charley  Long  gets  his  hands  on  him, 
that's  all." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  Tom  intervened.  "Bill  Roberts  is 
a  pretty  good  boy  from  what  I  hear." 

Saxon  smiled  with  superior  knowledge,  and  Sarah,  catch- 
ing her,  was  infuriated. 

"Why  don't  you  marry  Charley  Long?  He's  crazy  for 
you,  and  he  ain't  a  drinkin'  man." 

"I  guess  he  gets  outside  his  share  of  beer,"  Saxon  re- 
Ported. 

68 


THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON  69 

"That's  right,"  her  brother  supplemented.  "An*  I 
know  for  a  fact  that  he  keeps  a  keg  in  the  house  all  the 
time  as  well." 

"Maybe  you've  been  guzzling  from  it,"  Sarah  snapped. 

"Maybe  I  have,"  Tom  said,  wiping  his  mouth  reminis- 
cently  with  the  back  of  his  hand. 

"Well,  he  can  afford  to  keep  a  keg  in  the  house  if  he 
wants  to,"  she  returned  to  the  attack,  which  now  was 
directed  at  her  husband  as  well.  "He  pays  his  bills,  and 
he  certainly  makes  good  money — better  than  most  men, 
anyway. ' ' 

"An'  he  hasn't  a  wife  an'  children  to  watch  out  for," 
Tom  said. 

"Nor  everlafltin '  dues  to  unions  that  don't  do  him  no 
good." 

"Oh,  yes,  he  has,"  Tom  urged  genially.  "Blamed  Mttle 
he'd  work  in  that  shop,  or  any  other  shop  in  Oakland,  if 
he  didn't  keep  m  good  standing  with  the  Blacksmiths.  You 
don't  understand  labor  conditions,  Sarah.  The  unions  have 
got  to  stick,  if  the  men  aren  't  to  starve  to  death. ' ' 

"Oh,  of  course  not,"  Sarah  sniffed.  "I  don't  under- 
stand anything.  I  ain't  got  a  mind.  I'm  a  fool,  an'  you 
tell  me  so  right  before  the  children."  She  turned  savagely 
on  her  eldest,  \vho  startled  and  shrank  away.  "Willy,  your 
mother  is  a  fo'rl.  Do  you  get  that?  Your  father  says  she's 
a  fool — says  i1  right  before  her  face  and  yourn.  She's  just 
a  plain  fool.  Next  he'll  be  sayin'  she's  crazy  an'  puttin' 
her  away  in  the  asylum.  An'  how  will  you  like  that, 
Willie  ?  How  will  you  like  to  see  your  mother  in  a  strait- 
jacket  an'  a  padded  cell,  shut  out  from  the  light  of  the  sun 
an'  beaten  like  a  nigger  before  the  war,  Willie,  beaten  an' 
clubbed  lik«e  a  regular  black  nigger?  That's  the  kind  of  a 
father  you've  got,  Willie.  Think  of  it,  Willie,  in  a  padded 
cell,  the  mother  that  bore  you,  with  the  lunatics  screechin' 
an'  screamin'  all  around,  an'  the  quick-lime  eatin'  into  the 
dead  bodies  of  them  that's  beaten  to  death  by  the  cruel 
wardens " 


70  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

She  continued  tirelessly,  painting  with  pessimistic  strokes 
the  growing  black  future  her  husband  was  meditating  for 
her,  while  the  boy,  fearful  of  some  vague,  incomprehensible 
catastrophe,  began  to  weep  silently,  with  a  pendulous, 
trembling  underlip.  Saxon,  for  the  moment,  lost  eontrol 
of  herself. 

"Oh,  for  heaven's  sake,  can't  we  be  together  five  min- 
utes without  quarreling?"  she  blazed. 

Sarah  broke  off  from  asylum  conjurations  and  turned 
upon  her  sister-in-law. 

"Who's  quarreling?  Can't  I  open  my  head  without 
bein'  jumped  on  by  the  two  of  you?" 

Saxon  shrugged  her  shoulders  despairingly,  and  Sarah 
swung  about  on  her  husband. 

"Seein'  you  love  your  sister  so  much  better  than  your 
wife,  why  did  you  want  to  marry  me,  that's  borne  your 
children  for  you,  an'  slaved  for  you,  an'  toiled  for  you, 
an'  worked  her  fingernails  off  for  you,  with  no  thanks, 
an'  insultin'  me  before  the  children,  an'  sayin'  I'm  crazy 
to  their  faces.  An'  what  have  you  ever  did  for  me?  That's 
what  I  want  to  know — me,  that's  cooked  for  you,  an' 
washed  your  stinkin'  clothes,  and  fixed  your  socks,  an'  sat 
up  nights  with  your  brats  when  they  was  ailin'.  Look  at 
that!" 

She  thrust  out  a  shapeless,  swollen  foot,  encased  in  a 
monstrous,  untended  shoe,  the  dry,  raw  leather  of  which 
showed  white  on  the  edges  of  bulging  cracks. 

' '  Look  at  that !  That 's  what  I  say.  Look  at  that ! ' '  Her 
voice  was  persistently  rising  and  at  the  same  time  growing 
.throaty.  "The  only  shoes  I  got.  Me.  Your  wife.  Ain't 
{you  ashamed?  Where  are  my  three  pairs?  Look  at  that 
stockin'." 

Speech  failed  her,  and  she  sat  down  suddenly  on  a  chair 
at  the  table,  glaring  unutterable  malevolence  and  misery. 
She  arose  with  the  abrupt  stiffness  of  an  automaton,  poured 
herself  a  cup  of  cold  coffee,  and  in  the  same  jerky  way  sat 
down  again.  As  if  too  hot  for  her  lips,  she  filled  her  saucer 
with  the  greasy-looking,  nondescript  fluid,  and  continued 


THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON  71 

her  set  glare,  her  breast  rising  and  falling  with  staccato, 
mechanical  movement. 

"Now,  Sarah,  be  c'am,  be  c'am,"  Tom  pleaded  anxiously. 

In  response,  slowly,  with  utmost  deliberation,  as  if  the 
-destiny  of  empires  rested  on  the  certitude  of  her  act,  she 
turned  the  saucer  of  coffee  upside  down  on  the  table.  She 
lifted  her  right  hand,  slowly,  hugely,  and  in  the  same  slow, 
huge  way  landed  the  open  palm  with  a  sounding  slap  on 
Tom's  astounded  cheek.  Immediately  thereafter  she  raised 
her  voice  in  the  shrill,  hoarse,  monotonous  madness  of  hys- 
teria, sat  down  011  the  floor,  and  .rocked  back  and  forth  in 
the  throes  of  an  abysmal  grief. 

Willie 's  silent  weeping  turned  to  noise,  and  the  two  little 
girls,  with  the  fresh  ribbons  in  their  hair,  joined  him. 
Tom's  face  was  drawn  and  white,  though  the  smitten  cheek 
still  blazed,  and  Saxon  wanted  to  put  her  arms  comfort- 
ingly around  him,  yet  dared  not.  He  bent  over  his 
wife. 

"Sarah,  j-mi  ain't  feelin'  well.  Let  me  put  you  to  bed, 
and  I'll  finish  tidying  up." 

' '  Don 't  touch  me ! — don 't  touch  me ! ' '  she  screamed, 
jerking  violently  away  from  him. 

"Take  the  children  out  in  the  yard,  Tom,  for  a  walk, 
anything — get  them  away, ' '  Saxon  said.  She  was  sick,  and 
white,  and  trembling.  "Go,  Tom,  please,  please.  There's 
your  hat.  I'll  take  care  of  her.  I  know  just  how." 

Left  to  herself,  Saxon  worked  with  frantic  haste,  assum- 
ing the  calm  she  did  not  possess,  but  which  she  must  im- 
part to  the  screaming  bedlamite  upon  the  floor.  The  light 
frame  house  leaked  the  noise  hideously,  and  Saxon  knew 
that  the  houses  on  either  side  were  hearing,  and  the  street 
itself  and  the  houses  across  the  street.  Her  fear  was  that 
Billy  should  arrive  in  the  midst  of  it.  Further,  she  was 
incensed,  violated.  Every  fiber  rebelled,  almost  in  a  nau- 
sea; yet  she  maintained  cool  control  and  stroked  Sarah's 
forehead  and  hair  with  slow,  soothing  movements.  Soon, 
with  one  arm  around  her,  she  managed  to  win  the  first 
diminution  in  the  strident,  atrocious,  unceasing  scream.  A 


72  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

few  minutes  later,  sobbing  heavily,  the  elder  woman  lay 
in  bed,  across  her  forehead  and  eyes  a  wet-pack  of  towel 
for  easement  of  the  headache  she  and  Saxon  tacitly  ac- 
cepted as  substitute  for  the  brain-storm. 

When  a  clatter  of  hoofs  came  down  the  street  and 
stopped,  Saxon  was  able  to  slip  to  the  front  door  and  wave 
her  hand  to  Billy.  In  the  kitchen  she  found  Tom  waiting 
in  sad  anxiousness. 

"  It 's  all  right, ' '  she  said.  ' '  Billy  Roberts  has  come,  and 
I've  got  to  go.  You  go  in  and  sit  beside  her  for  a  while, 
and  maybe  she'll  go  to  sleep.  But  don't  rush  her.  Let 
her  have  her  own  way.  If  she'll  let  you  take  her  hand, 
why  do  it.  Try  it,  anyway.  But  first  of  all,  as  an  opener 
and  just  as  a  matter  of  course,  start  wetting  the  towel 
over  her  eyes." 

He  was  a  kindly,  easy-going  man ;  but,  after  the  way 
of  a  large  percentage  of  the  Western  stock,  he  was  un- 
demonstrative. He  nodded,  turned  toward  the  door  to 
obey,  and  paused  irresolutely.  The  look  he  gave  back  to 
Saxon  was  almost  dog-like  in  gratitude  and  all-brotherly  in 
love.  She  felt  it,  and  in  spirit  leapt  toward  it. 

"It's  all  right — everything's  all  right,"  she  cried  hastily. 

Tom  shook  his  head 

"No,  it  aiiT't.  It's  a  shame,  a  blamed  shame,  that's  what 
it  is."  He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Oh,  I  don't  care  for 
myself.  But  it's  for  you.  You  got  your  life  before  you' 
yet,  little  kid  sister.  You'll  get  old,  and  all  that  means, 
fast  enough.  But  it's  a  bad  start  for  a  day  off.  The  thing 
for  you  to  do  is  to  forget  all  this,  and  skin  out  with  your 
fellow,  an'  have  a  good  time."  In  the  open  door,  his  hand 
on  the  knob  to  close  it  after  him,  he  halted  a  second  time. 
A  spasm  contracted  his  brow.  "Hell !  Think  of  it !  Sarah 
and  I  used  to  go  buggy-riding  once  on  a  time.  And  I  guess 
she  had  her  three  pairs  of  shoes,  too.  Can  you  beat  it?" 

In  her  bedroom  Saxon  completed  her  dressing,  for  an 
instant  stepping  upon  a  chair  so  as  to  glimpse  critically 
in  the  small  wall-mirror  the  hang  of  her  ready-made  linen 
skirt.  This,  and  the  jacket,  she  had  altered  to  <U,  and  she 


THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON  73 

had  double-stitched  the  seams  to  achieve  the  coveted  tail- 
ored effect.  Still  on  the  chair,  all  in  the  moment  of  quick 
clear-seeing,  she  drew  the  skirt  tightly  back  and  raised  it. 
The  sight  was  good  to  her,  nor  did  she  under-appraise  the 
lines  of  the  slender  ankle  above  the  low  tan  tie ;  nor  did 
she  under-appraise  the  delicate  yet  mature  swell  of  calf 
outlined  in  the  fresh  brown  of  a  new  cotton  stocking.  Down 
from  the  chair,  she  pinned  on  a  firm  sailor  hat  of  white 
straw  with  a  brown  ribbon  around  the  crown  that  matched 
her  ribbon  belt.  She  rubbed  her  cheeks  quickly  and  fiercely 
to  bring  back  the  color  Sarah  had  driven  out  of  them,  and 
delayed  a  moment  longer  to  put  on  her  tan  lisle-thread 
gloves.  Once,  in  the  fashion-page  of  a  Sunday  supplement, 
she  had  read  that  no  lady  ever  put  on  her  gloves  after  she 
left  the  door. 

With  a  resolute  self-grip,  as  she  crossed  the  parlor  and 
passed  the  door  to  Sarah 's  bedroom,  through  the  thin  wood 
of  which  came  elephantine  meanings  and  low  slubberings, 
she  steeled  herself  to  keep  the  color  in  her  cheeks  and  the 
brightness  in  her  eyes.  And  so  well  did  she  succeed  that 
Billy  never  dreamed  that  the  radiant,  live  young  thing, 
tripping  lightly  down  the  steps  to  him,  had  just  come  from 
a  bout  with  soul-sickening  hysteria  and  madness. 

To  her,  in  the  bright  sun,  Billy's  blondness  was  start- 
ling. His  cheeks,  smooth  as  a  girl's,  were  touched  with 
color.  The  blue  eyes  seemed  more  cloudily  blue  than  usual, 
and  the  crisp,  sandy  hair  hinted  more  than  ever  of  the 
pale  straw-gold  that  was  not  there.  Never  had  she  seen 
him  quite  so  royally  young.  As  he  smiled  to  greet  her, 
with  a  slow  white  flash  of  teeth  from  between  red  lips,  she 
caught  again  the  promise  of  easement  and  rest.  Fresh  from 
the  shattering  chaos  of  her  sister-in-law's  mind,  Billy's 
tremendous  calm  was  especially  satisfying,  and  Saxon  men- 
tally laughed  to  scorn  the  terrible  temper  he  had  charged 
to  himself. 

She  had  been  buggy-riding  before,  but  always  behind 
one  horse,  jaded,  and  livery,  in  a  top-buggy,  heavy  and 
dingy,  such  as  livery  stables  rent  because  of  sturdy  un- 


74  THE    VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

breakableness.  But  here  stood  two  horses,  head-tossing  and 
restless,  shouting  in  every  high-light  glint  of  their  satin, 
golden-sorrel  coats  that  they  had  never  been  rented  out  in 
all  their  glorious  young  lives.  Between  them  was -a  pole 
inconceivably  slender,  on  them  were  harnesses  preposter- 
ously string-like  and  fragile.  And  Billy  belonged  here,  by 
elemental  right,  a  part  of  them  and  of  it,  a  master-part 
and  a  component,  along  with  the  spidery-delicate,  narrow- 
boxed,  wide-  and  yellow-wheeled,  rubbed-tired  rig,  efficient 
and  capable,  as  different  as  he  was  different  from  the  other 
men  who  had  taken  her  out  behind  stolid,  lumbering  horses. 
He  held  the  reins  in  one  hand,  yet,  with  low,  steady  voice, 
confident  and  assuring,  held  the  nervous  young  animals 
more  by  the  will  and  the  spirit  of  him. 

It  was  no  time  for  lingering.  With  the  quick  glance 
and  fore-knowledge  of  a  woman,  Saxon  saw,  not  merely 
the  curious  children  clustering  about,  but  the  peering  of 
adult  faces  from  open  doors  and  windows,  and  past  win- 
dow-shades lifted  up  or  held  aside.  With  his  free  hand, 
Billy  drew  back  the  linen  robe  and  helped  her  to  a  place 
beside  him.  The  high-backed,  luxuriously  upholstered  seat 
of  brown  leather  gave  her  a  sense  of  great  comfort ;  yet 
even  greater,  it  seemed  to  her,  was  the  nearness  and  com- 
fort of  the  man  himself  and  of  his  body. 

"How  d'ye  like  'em?"  he  asked,  changing  the  reins  to 
\>oth  hands  and  chirruping  the  horses,  which  went  out  with 
a,  jerk  in  an  immediacy  of  action  that  was  new  to  her. 
"They're  the  boss's,  you  know.  Couldn't  rent  animals  like 
'them.  He  lets  me  take  them  out  for  exercise  sometimes. 
'If  they  ain't  exercised  regular  they're  a  handful. 

Look  at  King,  there,  prancin'.  Some  style,  eh?  Some 

style!  The  other  one's  the  real  goods,  though.  Prince  is 

his  name.  Got  to  have  some  bit  on  him  to  hold  'm.  Ah ', 

Would  you?  Did  you  see'm,  Saxon?  Some  horse! 

Some  horse ! ' ' 

From  behind  came  the  admiring  cheer  of  the  neighbor- 
hood children,  and  Saxon,  with  a  sigh  of  content^  knew 
that  the  har>py  day  had  at  last  begun. 


CHAPTER  X 

''I  DON'T  know  horses,"  Saxon  said.  "I 're  never  been 
on  one's  back,  and  the  only  ones  I've  tried  to  drive  were 
single,  and  lame,  or  almost  falling  down,  or  something. 
But  I'm  not  afraid  of  horses.  I  just  love  them.  I  waa 
born  loving  them,  I  guess." 

Billy  threw  an  admiring,  appreciative  glance  at  her. 

"That's  the  stuff.  That's  what  I  like  in  a  woman- 
grit.  Some  of  the  girls  I've  had  out — well,  take  it  from 
me,  they  made  me  sick.  Oh,  I'm  hep  to  'em.  Nervous,  an' 
trembly,  an'  screechy,  an'  wabbly.  I  reckon  they  come 
out  on  my  account  an'  not  for  the  ponies.  But  me  for  the 
brave  kid  that  likes  the  ponies.  You're  the  real  goods, 
Saxon,  honest  to  God  you  are.  Why,  I  can  talk  like  a 
streak  with  you.  The  rest  of  'em  make  me  sick.  I'm  like 
a  clam.  They  don't  know  nothin',  an'  they're  that  scared 
all  the  time — well,  I  guess  you  get  me." 

"You  have  to  be  born  to  love  horses,  maybe,"  she  an- 
swered. "Maybe  it's  because  I  always  think  of  my  father 
on  his  roan  war-horse  that  makes  me  love  horses.  But, 
anyway,  I  do.  When  I  was  a  little  girl  I  was  drawing 
horses  all  the  time.  My  mother  always  encouraged  me. 
I've  a  scrapbook  mostly  filled  with  horses  I  drew  when  I 
was  little.  Do  you  know,  Billy,  sometimes  I  dream  I 
actually  own  a  horse,  all  my  own.  And  lots  of  times  I 
dream  I'm  on  a  horse's  back,  or  driving  him." 

"I'll  let  you  drive  'em,  after  a  while,  when  they've 

worked  their  edge  off.  They're  pullin'  now.  There, 

put  your  hands  in  front  of  mine — take  hold  tight.  Feel 
that?  Sure  you  feel  it.  An'  you  ain't  feelin'  it  all  by  a 
long  shot.  I  don't  dast  slack,  you  bein'  such  a  light- 
weight." 

Her  eyes  sparkled  as  she  felt  the  apportioned  pull  of 
-75 


76  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

the  mouths  of  the  beautiful,  live  things ;  and  he,  looking 
at  her,  sparkled  with  her  in  her  delight. 

"What's  the  good  of  a  woman  if  she  can't  keep  up  with 
a  man?"  he  broke  out  enthusiastically. 

"People  that  like  the  same  things  always  get  along  best 
together,"  she  answered,  with  a  triteness  that  concealed 
the  joy  that  was  hers  at  being  so  spontaneously  in  touchf 
with  him. 

"Why,  Saxon,  I've  fought  battles,  good  ones,  frazzlin' 
my  silk  away  to  beat  the  band  before  whisky-soaked, 
smokin'  audiences  of  rotten  fight-fans,  that  just  made  me 
sick  clean  through.  An'  them,  that  couldn't  take  just  one 
stiff  jolt  or  hook  to  jaw  or  stomach,  a-cheerin'  me  an' 
yellin'  for  blood.  Blood,  mind  you!  An'  them  without 
the  blood  of  a  shrimp  in  their  bodies.  Why,  honest,  now, 
I'd  sooner  fight  before  an  audience  of  one — you,  for  in- 
stance, or  anybody  I  liked.  It'd  do  me  proud.  But  them 
sickenin',  sap-headed  stiffs,  with  the  grit  of  rabbits  and 
the  silk  of  mangy  ki-yi's,  a-cheerin'  me — me!  Can  you 
blame  me-  for  quittin '  the  dirty  game  ?  Why,  I  'd  sooner 
fight  before  broke-down  old  plugs  of  work-horses  that's 
candidates  for  chicken-meat,  than  before  them  rotten 
bunches  of  stiffs  with  nothin '  thicker  'n  water  in  their  veins, 
an'  Contra  Costa  water  at  that  when  the  rains  is  heavy  on 
the  hills." 

"I  .  .  .  I  didn't  know  prizefighting  was  like  that," 
she  faltered,  as  she  released  her  hold  on  the  lines  and  sank 
back  again  beside  him. 

"It  ain't  the  fightin',  it's  the  fight-crowds,"  he  defended 
with  instant  jealousy.  "Of  course,  fightin'  hurts  a  young 
fellow  because  it  frazzles  the  silk  outa  him  an'  all  that. 
But  it's  the  low-lifers  in  the  audience  that  gets  me.  Why 
the  good  things  they  say  to  me,  the  praise  an'  that,  is  in- 
sulting. Do  you  get  me?  It  makes  me  cheap.  Think  of 
it! — booze-guzzlin'  stiffs  that'd  be  afraid  to  mix  it  with  a 
sick  cat,  not  fit  to  hold  the  coat  of  any  decent  man,  think 
of  them  a-standin'  up  on  their  hind  legs  an'  yellin'  an' 
cheerin'  me — me! " 


THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON  77 

"Ha!  ha!  What  d'ye  think  of  that?  Ain't  he  a 
rogue?" 

A  big  bulldog,  sliding  obliquely  and  silently  across  the 
street,  unconcerned  with  the  team  he  was  avoiding,  had 
passed  so  close  that  Prince,  baring  his  teeth  like  a  stallion, 
plunged  his  head  down  against  reins  and  check  in  an  effort 
to  seize  the  dog. 

"Now  he's  some  fighter,  that  Prince.  An*  he's  natural. 
He  didn't  make  that  reach  just  for  some  low-lifer  to  yell'm 
on.  He  just  done  it  outa  pure  cussedness  and  himself. 
That's  clean.  That's  right.  Because  it's  natural.  But 
them  fight-fans!  Honest  to  God,  Saxon.  .  .  ." 

And  Saxon,  glimpsing  him  sidewise,  as  he  watched  the 
horses  and  their  way  on  the  Sunday  morning  streets,  check- 
ing them  back  suddenly  and  swerving  to  avoid  two  boys 
coasting  across  street  on  a  toy  wagon,  saw  in  him  deeps 
and  intensities,  all  the  magic  connotations  of  temperament, 
the  glimmer  and  hint  of  rages  profound,  bleaknesses  as 
cold  and  far  as  the  stars,  savagery  as  keen  as  a  wolf's  and 
clean  as  a  stallion's,  wrath  as  implacable  as  a  destroying 
angel's,  and  youth  that  was  fire  and  life  beyond  time  and 
place.  She  was  awed  and  fascinated,  with  the  hunger  of 
woman  bridging  the  vastness  to  him,  daring  to  love  him 
with  arms  and  breast  that  ached  to  him,  murmuring  to 
herself  and  through  all  the  halls  of  her  soul,  "You  dear, 
you  dear." 

"Honest  to  God,  Saxon,"  he  took  up«the  broken  thread, 
"they's  times  when  I've  hated  them,  when  I  wanted  to 
Jump  over  the  ropes  and  wade  into  them,  knock-down  and 
dragout,  an'  show'm  what  fightin'  was.  Take  that  night 
with  Billy  Murphy.  Billy  Murphy! — if  you  only  knew 
him.  My  friend.  As  clean  an '  game  a  boy  as  ever  jumped 
inside  the  ropes  to  take  the  decision.  Him!  We  went  to 
the  Durant  School  together.  We  grew  up  chums.  His 
fight  was  my  fight.  My  trouble  was  his  trouble.  We  both 
took  to  the  fightin'  game.  They  matched  us.  Not  the  first 
time.  Twice  we'd  fought  draws.  Once  the  decision  was 
his;  once  it  was  mine.  The  fifth  fight  of  two  lovin'  men 


78  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

that  just  loved  each  other.  He's  three  years  older 'n  me. 
He's  a  wife  and  two  or  three  kids,  an'  I  know  them,  too. 
And  he's  my  friend.  Get  it? 

"I'm  ten  pounds  heavier — but  with  heavyweights  that's 
all  right.  He  can't  time  an'  distance  as  good  as  me,  an 
I  can  keep  set  better,  too.  But  he's  cleverer  an'  quicker. 
I  never  was  quick  like  him.  "We  both  can  take  punish- 
ment, an'  we're  both  two-handed,  a  wallop  in  all  our  fists. 
I  know  the  kick  of  his,  an'  he  knows  my  kick,  an'  we're 
both  real  respectful.  And  we're  even-matched.  Two 
draws,  and  a  decision  to  each.  Honest,  I  ain't  any  kind 
of  a  hunch  who's  goin'  to  win,  we're  that  even. 

"Now,  the  fight. You  ain't  squeamish,  are  you?" 

"No,  no,"  she  cried.  "I'd  just  love  to  hear — you  are 
so  wonderful." 

He  took  the  praise  with  a  clear,  unwavering  look,  and 
without  hint  of  acknowledgment. 

"We  go  along — six  rounds — seven  rounds — eight 
rounds;  an'  honors  even.  I've  been  timin'  his  rushes  an' 
straight-lef  tin '  him,  an'  meetin'  his  duck  with  a  wicked 
little  right  upper-cut,  an'  he's  shaken  me  en  the  jaw  an' 
walloped  my  ears  till  my  head's  all  singin'  an'  buzzin'. 
An'  everything  lovely  with  both  of  us,  with  a  noise  like 
a  draw  decision  in  sight.  Twenty  rounds  is  the  distance, 
you  know. 

"An'  then  his  bad  luck  comes.  We're  just  mixin'  inte 
a  clinch  that  ain't  arrived  yet,  when  he  shoots  a  short  hook 
to  my  head — his  left,  an'  a  real  hay-maker  if  it  reaches 
my  jaw.  I  make  a  forward  duck,  not  quick  enough,  an'  he 
lands  bingo  on  the  side  of  my  head.  Honest  to  God,  Saxon 
it's  that  heavy  I  see  some  stars.  But  it  don't  hurt  an; 
ain't  serious,  that  high  up  where  the  bone's  thick.  An1 
right  there  he  finishes  himself,  for  his  bad  thumb,  which 
I've  known  since  he  first  got  it  as  a  kid  fightin'  in  the 
sandlot  at  Watts  Tract — he  smashes  that  thumb  right  there, 
on  my  hard  head,  back  into  the  socket  with  an  out-twist, 
an'  all  the  old  cords  that'd  never  got  strong  gets  theirs 
again.  I  didn  't  mean  it.  A  dirty  trick,  fair  in  the  game, 


THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON  79 

though,  to  make  a  guy  smash  his  hand  on  your  head.  But 
not  between  friends.  I  couldn't  a-done  that  to  Bill  Murphy 
for  a  million  dollars.  It  was  a  accident,  just  because  I 
was  slow,  because  I  was  born  slow. 

"The  hurt  of  it!  Honest,  Saxon,  you  don't  know  what 
hurt  is  till  you've  got  a  old  hurt  like  that  hurt  again. 
What  can  Billy  Murphy, do  but  slow  down?  He's  got  to. 
He  ain't  fightin'  two-handed  any  more.  He  knows  it;  I 
know  it ;  the  referee  knows  it ;  but  nobody  else.  He  goes 
on  a-moving  that  left  of  his  like  it's  all  right.  But  it  ain't. 
It's  hurtin'  him  like  a  knife  dug  into  him.  He  don't  dast 
strike  a  real  blow  with  that  left  of  his.  But  it  hurts,  any- 
way. Just  to  move  it  or  not  move  it  hurts,  an'  every  little 
dab-feint  that  I'm  too  wise  to  guard,  knowin'  there's  no 
weight  behind,  why  them  little  dab-touches  on  that  poor 
thumb  goes  right  to  the  heart  of  him,  an '  hurts  worse  than 
a  thousand  boils  or  a  thousand  knockouts — just  hurts  all 
over  again,  an'  worse,  each  time  an'  touch. 

"Now  suppose  he  an'  me  was  boxin'  for  fun,  out  in  the 
back  yard,  an'  he  hurts  his  thumb  that  way,  why  we'd 
have  the  gloves  off  in  a  jiffy  an'  I'd  be  putting  cold  com- 
presses on  that  poor  thumb  of  his  an'  bandagin'  it  that 
tight  to  keep  the  inflammation  down.  But  no.  This  is  a 
fight  for  fight-fans  that's  paid  their  admission  for  blood, 
an'  blood  they're  goin'  to  get.  They  ain't  men.  They're 
wolves. 

"He  has  to  go  easy,  now,  an'  I  ain't  a-forcin'  him  none. 
-I'm  all  shot  to  pieces.  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  So  I 
slow  down,  an'  the  fans  get  hep  to  it.  'Why  don't  you 
fight?'  they  begin  to  yell;  'Fake!  Fake!'  'Why  don't 
you  kiss'm?'  'Lovin'  cup  for  yours,  Bill  Koberts!'  an' 
that  sort  of  bunk. 

"  'Fight!'  says  the  referee  to  me,  low  an'  savage. 
'Fight,  or  I'll  disqualify  you — you,  Bill,  I  mean  you.'  An* 
this  to  me,  with  a  touch  on  the  shoulder  so  they's  no  mis- 
takin'. 

"It  ain't  pretty.  It  ain't  right.  D'ye  know  what  we 
was  fightin'  for?  A  hundred  bucks.  Think  of  it!  An* 


80  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

the  game  is  we  got  to  do  our  best  to  put  our  man  down 
for  the  count  because  of  the  fans  has  bet  on  us.     Swe^' 
ain't  it?    Well,  that's  my  last  fight.    It  finishes  me  deado. 
Never  again  for  yours  truly. 

"  'Quit,'  I  says  to  Billy  Murphy  in  a  clinch;  'for  the 
love  of  God,  Bill,  quit.'  An'  he  says  back,  in  a  whisper, 
'I  can't,  Bill — you  know  that.' 

"An'  then  the  referee  drags  us  apart,  an'  a  lot  of  th* 
fans  begins  to  hoot  an'  boo. 

"  'Now  kick  in,  damn  you,  Bill  Roberts,  an'  finish 'm,' 
the  referee  says  to  me,  an'  I  tell'm  to  go  to  hell  as  Bill 
an'  me  flop  into  the  next  clinch,  not  hittin',  an'  Bill 
touches  his  thumb  again,  an'  I  see  the  pain  shoot  across 
his  face.  Game?  That  good  boy's  the  limit.  An'  to  look 
into  the  eyes  of  a  brave  man  that's  sick  with  pain,  an' 
love'm,  an'  see  love  in  them  eyes  of  his,  an'  then  have  to 
go  on  givin'  'm  pain — call  that  sport?  I  can't  see  it.  But 
the  crowd's  got  its  money  on  us.  "We  don't  count.  We've 
sold  ourselves  for  a  hundred  bucks,  an'  we  gotta  deliver 
the  goods. 

"Let  me  tell  you,  Saxon,  honest  to  God,  that  was 
one  of  the  times  I  wanted  to  go  through  the  ropes  an '  drop 
them  fans  a-yellin'  for  blood  an'  show  'em  what  blood 
is. 

"  'For  God's  sake  finish  me,  Bill,'  Bill  says  to  me  in 
that  clinch;  'put  her  over  an'  I'll  fall  for  it,  but  I  can't 
lay  down.' 

"D'ye  want  to  know?  I  cry  there,  right  in  the  ring, 
in  that  clinch.  The  weeps  for  me.  'I  can't  do  it,  Bill,'  I 
whisper  back,  hangin'  onto'm  like  a  brother  an'  the  referee 
ragin '  an  draggin '  at  us  to  get  us  apart,  an '  all  the  wolves 
in  the  house  snarlin'. 

'  'You  got  'm!'  the  audience  is  yellin'.  'Go  in  an' 
finish  'm ! '  '  The  hay  for  him,  Bill ;  put  her  across  to  the 
jaw  an'  see  'm  fall!' 

'  'You  got  to,  Bill,  or  you're  a  dog,'  Bill  says,  lookin' 
love  at  me  in  his  eyes  as  the  referee's  grip  untangles  us 
clear. 


THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON  81 

"An'  them  wolves  of  fans  yellin':  'Fake!  Fake! 
Fake ! '  like  that,  an '  keepin '  it  up. 

"Well,  I  done  it.  They's  only  that  way  out.  I  done  it. 
By  God,  I  done  it.  I  had  to.  I  feint  for  'm,  draw  his 
left,  duck  to  the  right  past  it,  takin '  it  across  my  shoulder, 
an'  come  up  with  my  right  to  his  jaw.  An'  he  knows  the 
trick.  He's  hep.  He's  beaten  me  to  it  an'  blocked  it  with 
ftiis  shoulder  a  thousan'  times.  But  this  time  he  don't, 
fae  keeps  himself  wide  open  on  purpose.  Blim!  It  lands. 
He's  dead  in  the  air,  an'  he  goes  down  sideways,  strikin' 
his  face  first  on  the  rosin-canvas  an'  then  layin'  dead,  his 
head  twisted  under  'm  till  you'd  a-thought  his  neck  was 
broke.  Me — I  did  that  for  a  hundred  bucks  an'  a  bunch 
of  stiffs  I'd  be  ashamed  to  wipe  my  feet  on.  An'  then  I 
pick  Bill  up  in  my  arms  an'  carry 'm  to  his  corner,  an' 
help  bring 'm  around.  Well,  they  ain't  no  kick  comin'. 
They  pay  their  money  an '  they  get  their  blood,  an '  a  knock- 
out. An'  a  better  man  than  them,  that  I  love,  layin'  there 
dead  to  the  world  with  a  skinned  face  on  the  mat." 

For  a  moment  he  was  still,  gazing  straight  before  him 
at  the  horses,  his  face  hard  and  angry.  He  sighed,  looked 
at  Saxon,  and  smiled. 

"An'  I  quit  the  game  right  there.  An'  Billy  Murphy's 
laughed  at  me  for  it.  He  still  follows  it.  A  side-line,  you 
know,  because  he  works  at  a  good  trade.  But  once  in  a 
while,  when  the  house  needs  paintin',  or  the  doctor  bills 
are  up,  or  his  oldest  kid  wants  a  bicycle,  he  jumps  out  an' 
makes  fifty  or  a  hundred  bucks  before  some  of  the  clubs.  I 
osrant  you  to  meet  him  when  it  comes  handy.  He's  some 
jboy  I'm  tellin'  you.  But  it  did  make  me  sick  that  night." 

Again  the  harshness  and  anger  were  in  his  face,  and 
Saxon  amazed  herself  by  doing  unconsciously  what  women 
higher  in  the  social  scale  have  done  with  deliberate  sincer- 
ity. Her  hand  went  out  impulsively  to  his  holding  the 
lines,  resting  on  top  of  it  for  a  moment  with  quick,  firm 
pressure.  Her  reward  was  a  smile  from  lips  and  eyes,  as 
his  face  turned  toward  her. 

"Gee!"  he  exclaimed.    "I  never  talk  a  streak  like  this 


82  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

to  anybody.  I  just  hold  my  hush  an'  keep  my  thinks  to 
myself.  But,  somehow,  I  guess  it's  funny,  I  kind  of  have 
a  feelin'  I  want  to  make  good  with  you.  An'  that's  why 
I'm  tellin'  you  my  thinks.  Anybody  can  dance." 

The  way  led  uptown,  past  the  City  Hall  and  the  Four- 
teenth Street  skyscrapers,  and  out  Broadway  to  Mountain 
View.  Turning  to  the  right  at  the  cemetery,  they  climbed 
the  Piedmont  Heights  to  Blair  Park  and  plunged  into  the 
green  coolness  of  Jack  Hayes  Canyon.  Saxon  could  not 
suppress  her  surprise  and  joy  at  the  quickness  with  whick 
they  covered  the  ground. 

"They  are  beautiful,"  she  said.  "I  never  dreamed  I'd 
ever  ride  behind  horses  like  them.  I'm  afraid  I'll  wake 
up  now  and  find  it's  a  dream.  You  know,  I  dream  horses 
all  the  time.  I'd  give  anything  to  own  one  some  time." 

"It's  funny,  ain't  it?"  Billy  answered.  "I  like  horses 
that  way.  The  boss  says  I'm  a  wooz  at  horses.  An'  I 
know  he's  a  dub.  He  don't  know  the  first  thing.  An'  yet 
he  owns  two  hundred  big  heavy  draughts  besides  this  light 
drivin'  pair,  an'  I  don't  own  one." 

"Yet  God  makes  the  horses,"  Saxon  said. 

"It's  a  sure  thing  the  boss  don't.  Then  how  does  he 
have  so  many? — two  hundred  of  'em,  I'm  tellin'  you.  He 
thinks  he  likes  horses.  Honest  to  God,  Saxon,  he  don't 
like  all  his  horses  as  much  as  I  like  the  last  hair  on  the  last 
tail  of  the  scrubbiest  of  the  bunch.  Yet  they're  his. 
Wouldn't  it  jar  you?" 

"Wouldn't  it?"  Saxon  laughed  appreciatively.  "I  just 
love  fancy  shirtwaists,  an'  I  spend  my  life  ironing  some 
of  the  beautifulest  I've  ever  seen.  It's  funny,  an'  it  isn't 
fair." 

Billy  gritted  his  teeth  in  another  of  his  rages. 

An '  the  way  some  of  them  women  gets  their  shirtwaists. 
It  makes  me  sick,  thinkin'  of  you  ironin'  'em.  You  know 
what  I  mean,  Saxon.  They  ain't  no  use  wastin*  words 
over  it.  You  know.  I  know.  Everybody  knows.  An '  it 's 
a  hell  of  a  world  if  men  an'  women  sometimes  can't  talk 
to  each  other  about  such  things. ' '  His  manp^  was  almost 


THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON  83 

apologetic,  yet  it  was  defiantly  and  assertively  right.  "I 
never  talk  this  way  to  other  girls.  They  'd  think  I  'm  work- 
in'  up  to  designs  on  'em.  They  make  me  sick  the  way 
they're  always  lookin'  for  them  designs.  But  you're  dif- 
ferent. I  can  talk  to  you  that  way.  I  know  I  've  got  to. 
It's  the  square  thing.  You're  like  Billy  Murphy,  or  any 
other  man  a  man  can  talk  to." 

She  sighed  with  a  great  happiness,  and  looked  at  him 
yrith  unconscious,  love-shining  eyes. 

"It's  the  same  way  with  me,"  she  said.  "The  fellows 
I've  run  with  I've  never  dared  let  talk  about  such  things, 
because  I  knew  they'd  take  advantage  of  it.  Why,  all  the 
time,  with  them,  I've  a  feeling  that  we're  cheating  and 
lying  to  each  other,  playing  a  game  like  at  a  masquerade 
ball."  She  paused  for  a  moment,  hesitant  and  debating, 
then  went  on  in  a  queer  low  voice.  "I  haven't  been,  asleep. 
I've  seen  .  .  .  and  heard.  I've  had  my  chances,  when 
I  was  that  tired  of  the  laundry  I'd  have  done  almost  any- 
thing. I  could  have  got  those  fancy  shirtwaists  ...  an ' 
all  the  rest  .  .  .  and  maybe  a  horse  to  ride.  There  was 
a  bank  cashier  .  .  .  married,  too,  if  you  please.  He 
talked  to  me  straight  out.  I  didn't  count,  you  know.  I 
wasn't  a  girl,  with  a  girl's  feelings,  or  anything.  I  was 
nobody.  It  was  just  like  a  business  talk.  I  learned  about 
men  from  him.  He  told  me  what  he'd  do.  He  .  .  ." 

Her  voice  died  away  in  sadness,  and  in  the  silence  she 
•ould  hear  Billy  grit  his  teeth. 

"You  can't  tell  me,"  he  cried.  "I  know.  It's  a  dirty 
world — an  unfair,  lousy  world.  I  can't  make  it  out. 

rf'They's  no  squareness  in  it.  Women,  with  the  best 

that's  in  'em,  bought  an'  sold  like  horses.  I  don't  under- 
stand women  that  way.  I  don't  understand  men  that  way. 
I  can't  see  how  a  man  gets  anything  but  cheated  when  he 
buys  such  things.  It's  funny,  ain't  it?  Take  my  boss  an' 
his  horses.  He  owns  women,  too.  He  might  a-owned  you, 
just  because  he's  got  the  price.  An',  Saxon,  you  was  made 
for  fancy  shirtwaists  an'  all  that,  but.  honest  to  God,  I 


84  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

can't  see  you  payin'  for  them  that  way.    It'd  be  a  crime 

He  broke  off  abruptly  and  reined  in  the  horses.  Around 
a  sharp  turn,  speeding  down  the  grade  upon  them,  had 
appeared  an  automobile.  "With  slamming  of  brakes  it  was 
brought  to  a  stop,  while  the  faces  of  the  occupants  took 
new  lease  of  interest  of  life  and  stared  at  the  young  man 
and  woman  in  the  light  rig  that  barred  the  way.  Billy  ( 
held  up  his  hand. 

"Take  the  outside,  sport,"  he  said  to  the  chauffeur. 

"Nothin'  doin',  kiddo,"  came  the  answer,  as  the  chauf- 
feur measured  with  hard,  wise  eyes  the  crumbling  edge  of 
the  road  and  the  downfall  of  the  outside  bank. 

"Then  we  camp,"  Billy  announced  cheerfully.  "I  know 
the  rules  of  the  road.  These  animals  ain't  automobile 
broke  altogether,  an'  if  you  think  I'm  goin'  to  have  'em 
shy  off  the  grade  you  got  another  guess  comin '. ' ' 

A  confusion  of  injured  protestation  arose  from  those 
that  sat  in  the  car. 

"You  needn't  be  a  road-hog  because  you're  a  Rube," 
said  the  chauffeur.  "We  ain't  a-goin'  to  hurt  your  horses. 
Pull  out  so  we  can  pass.  If  you  don 't  .  .  . " 

"That'll  do  you,  sport,"  was  Billy's  retort.  "You  can't 
talk  that  way  to  yours  truly.  I  got  your  number  an '  your 
tag,  my  son.  You're  standin'  on  your  foot.  Back  up  the 
grade  an'  get  off  of  it.  Stop  on  the  outside  at  the  first 
passin '-place  an'  we'll  pass  you.  You've  got  the  juice. 
Throw  on  the  reverse." 

After  a  nervous  consultation,  the  chauffeur  obeyed,  and 
the  car  backed  up  the  hill  and  out  of  sight  around  the  turn. 

"Them  cheap  skates,"  Billy  sneered  to  Saxon,  "with  a 
couple  of  gallons  of  gasoline  an'  the  price  of  a  machine 
a-thinkin'  they  own  the  roads  your  folks  an'  my  folks 
made." 

"Takin'  all  night  about  it?"  came  the  chauffeur's  voice 
from  around  the  bend.  "Get  a  move  on.  You  can  pass." 

"Get   off   your   foot,"   Billy   retorted   contemptuously. 

"I'm  a-comin'  when  I'm  ready  to  come,  an'  if  you  ain't 


THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON  85 

given  room  enough  I'll  go  clean  over  you  an'  your  load 
of  chicken  meat." 

He  slightly  slacked  the  reins  on  the  restless,  head-tossing 
animals,  and  without  need  of  chirrup  they  took  the  weight 
of  the  light  vehicle  and  passed  up  the  hill  and  apprehen- 
sively on  the  inside  of  the  purring  machine. 

"Where  was  we?"  Billy  queried,  as  the  clear  road 
showed  in  front.  "Yep,  take  my  boss.  Why  should  he 
own  two  hundred  horses,  an'  women,  an'  the  rest,  an'  you 
an'  me  own  nothin'?" 

"You  own  your  silk,  Billy,"  she  said  softly. 

"An'  you  yours.  Yet  we  sell  it  to  'em  like  it  was  cloth 
across  the  counter  at  so  much  a  yard.  I  guess  you're  hep 
to  what  a  few  more  years  in  the  laundry  '11  do  to  you.  Take 
me.  I'm  sellin'  my  silk  slow  every  day  I  work.  See  that 
little  finger?"  He  shifted  the  reins  to  one  hand  for  a 
moment  and  held  up  the  free  hand  for  inspection.  "I 
can't  straighten  it  like  the  others,  an'  it's  growin'.  I  never 
put  it  out  fightin'.  The  teamin's  done  it.  That's  silk 
gone  across  the  counter,  that's  all.  Ever  see  a  old  four- 
horse  teamster's  hands?  They  look  like  claws  they're  that 
crippled  an'  twisted." 

''Things  weren't  like  that  in  the  old  days  when  our  folks 
crossed  the  plains,"  she  answered.  "They  might  a-got 
their  fingers  twisted,  but  they  owned  the  best  goin'  in  the 
way  of  horses  and  such." 

' '  Sure.  They  worked  for  themselves.  They  twisted  their 
.fingers  for  themselves.  But  I'm  twistin'  my  fingers  for 
my  boss.  Why,  d'ye  know,  Saxon,  his  hands  is  soft  as  a 
woman's  that's  never  done  any  work.  Yet  he  owns  the 
'horses  an'  the  stables,  an'  never  does  a  tap  of  work,  an' 
I  manage  to  scratch  my  meal-ticket  an'  my  clothes.  It's 
got  my  goat  the  way  things  is  run.  An'  who  runs  'em 
that  way?  That's  what  I  want  to  know.  Times  has 
changed.  Who  changed  'em?" 

"God  didn't." 

"You  bet  your  life  he  didn't.  An'  that's  another  thing 
that  gets  me.  Who's  God  anyway?  If  he's  runnin'  things 


B6  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

— an'  what  good  is  he  if  he  ain't? — then  why  does  he  let 
my  boss,  an*  men  like  that  cashier  you  mentioned,  why 
does  he  let  them  own  the  horses,  an'  buy  the  women,  the 
nice  little  girls  that  oughta  be  lovin'  their  own  husbands 
an'  havin'  children  they're  not  ashamed  of,  an'  just  bein 
happy  accordin'  to  their  naturt!" 


CHAPTER  XI 

'.  THE  horses,  resting  frequently  and  lathered  by  the  work, 
had  climbed  the  steep  grade  of  the  old  road  to  Moraga 
Valley,  and  on  the  divide  of  the  Contra  Costa  hills  the  way 
descended  sharply  through  the  green  and  sunny  stillness 
of  Redwood  Canyon. 

"Say,  ain't  it  swell?"  Billy  queried,  with  a  wave  of  his 
hand  indicating  the  circled  tree-groups,  the  trickle  of  un- 
seen water,  and  the  summer  hum  of  bees. 

* '  I  love  it, ' '  Saxon  affirmed.  ' '  It  makes  me  want  to  live 
in  the  country,  and  I  never  have," 

"Me,  too,  Saxon.  I've  never  lived  in  the  country  in  my 
life — an'  all  my  folks  was  country  folks." 

"No  cities  then.    Everybody  lived  in  the  country. " 

"I  guess  you're  right,"  he  nodded.  "They  just  had  to 
live  in  the  country." 

There  was  no  brake  on  the  light  carriage,  and  Billy  be- 
came absorbed  in  managing  his  team  down  the  steep,  wind- 
ing road.  Saxon  leaned  back,  eyes  closed,  with  a  feeling 
of  ineffable  rest.  Time  and  again  he  shot  glances  at  her 
closed  eyes. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked  finally,  in  mild  alarm. 
"You  ain't  sick?" 

"It's  so  beautiful  I'm  afraid  to  look,"  she  answered. 
"It's  so  brave  it  hurts." 

"Bravef — now  that's  funny." 

"Isn't  it?  But  it  just  makes  me  feel  that  way.  It's 
brave.  Now  the  houses  and  streets  and  things  in  the  city 
aren't  brave.  But  this  is.  I  don't  know  why.  It  just  is." 

"By  golly,  I  think  you're  right,"  he  exclaimed.  "It 
strikes  me  that  way,  now  you  speak  of  it.  They  ain't  no 
games  or  tricks  here,  no  cheatin'  an'  no  lyin'.  Them  trees 
£7 


88  THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

just  stand  up  natural  an'  strong  an'  clean  like  young  boys 
their  first  time  in  the  ring  before  they've  learned  its  rot- 
tenness an'  how  to  double-cross  an'  lay  down  to  the  bettin' 
odds  an'  the  fight-fans.  Yep;  it  is  brave.  Say,  Saxon, 
you  see  things,  don 't  you  ? ' '  His  pause  was  almost  wistful, 
and  he  looked  at  her  and  studied  her  with  a  caressing  soft- 
ness that  ran  through  her  in  resurgent  thrills.  "D'ye 
know,  I'd  just  like  you  to  see  me  fight  some  time — a  real 
fight,  with  something  doin'  every  moment.  I'd  be  proud 
to  death  to  do  it  for  you.  An '  I  'd  sure  fight  some  with  you 
lookin'  on  an'  understandin '.  That'd  be  a  fight  what  is, 
take  it  from  me.  An'  that's  funny,  too.  I  never  wanted 
to  fight  before  a  woman  in  my  life.  They  squeal  and 
screech  an'  don't  understand.  But  you'd  understand.  It's 
dead  open  an'  shut  you  would." 

A  little  later,  swinging  along  the  flat  of  the  valley, 
through  the  little  clearings  of  the  farmers  and  the  ripe 
grain-stretches  golden  in  the  sunshine,  Billy  turned  to 
Saxon  again. 

' '  Say,  you  've  ben  in  love  with  fellows,  lots  of  times.  Tell 
me  about  it.  What's  it  like?" 

She  shook  her  head  slowly. 

"I  only  thought  I  was  in  love — and  not  many  times, 
either " 

"Many  times!"  he  cried. 

"Not  really  ever,"  she  assured  him,  secretly  exultant  at 
his  unconscious  jealousy.  "I  never  was  really  in  love.  If 
I  had  been  I'd  be  married  now.  You  see,  I  couldn't  see« 
anything  else  to  it  but  to  marry  a  man  if  I  loved  him."  \ 

"But  suppose  he  didn't  love  you?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  smiled,  half  with  facetiousness 
and  half  with  certainty  and  pride.  ' '  I  think  I  could  make 
him  love  me." 

"I  guess  you  sure  could,"  Billy  proclaimed  enthusias- 
tically. 

"The  trouble  is,"  she  went  on,  "the  men  that  loved  me 
I  never  cared  for  that  way.  Oh,  look!" 

A  cottontail  rabbit  had  scuttled  across  the  road,  and  a 


THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON  89 

tiny  dust  cloud  lingered  like  smoke,  marking  the  way  of 
his  flight.  At  the  next  turn  a  dozen  quail  exploded  into 
the  air  from  under  the  noses  of  the  horses.  Billy  and 
Saxon  exclaimed  in  mutual  deljght. 

"Gee,"  he  muttered,  "I  almost  wisht  I'd  ben  born  a 
farmer.  Folks  wasn't  made  to  live  in  cities." 

"Not  our  kind,  at  least,"  she  agreed.  Followed  a  pause 
and  a  long  sigh.  "It's  all  so  beautiful.  It  would  be  a 
dream  just  to  live  all  your  life  in  it.  I'd  like  to  be  an 
Indian  squaw  sometimes." 

Several  times  Billy  checked  himself  on  the  verge  of 
speech. 

"About  those  fellows  you  thought  you  was  in  love 
with,"  he  said  finally.  "You  ain't  told  me,  yet." 

' '  You  want  to  know  ? ' '  she  asked.  ' '  They  didn  't  amount 
to  anything." 

' '  Of  course  I  want  to  know.    Go  ahead.    Fire  away. ' ' 

"Well,  first  there  was  Al  Stanley " 

"What  did  he  do  for  a  livin'?"  Billy  demanded,  almost 
as  with  authority. 

"He  was  a  gambler." 

Billy's  face  abruptly  stiffened,  and  she  could  see  his 
eyes  cloudy  with  doubt  in  the  quick  glance  he  flung  at  her. 

' '  Oh,  it  was  all  right, ' '  she  laughed.  ' '  I  was  only  eight 
years  old.  You  see,  I'm  beginning  at  the  beginning.  It 
was  after  my  mother  died  and  when  I  was  adopted  by 
Cady.  He  kept  a  hotel  and  saloon.  It  was  down  in  Los 
Angeles.  Just  a  small  hotel.  Workingmen,  just  common 
laborers,  mostly,  and  some  railroad  men,  stopped  at  it,  and 
I  guess  Al  Stanley  got  his  share  of  their  wages.  He  was 
so  handsome  and  so  quiet  and  soft-spoken.  And  he  had 
the  nicest  eyes  and  the  softest,  cleanest  hands.  I  can  see 
them  now.  He  played  with  me  sometimes,  in  the  after- 
noon, and  gave  me  candy  and  little  presents.  He  used  if 
sleep  most  of  the  day.  I  didn't  know  why,  then.  I  thought 
he  was  a  fairy  prince  in  disguise.  And  then  he  got  killed, 
right  in  the  bar-room,  but  first  he  killed  the  man  that 
killed  him.  So  that  was  the  end  of  that  love  affair. 


90  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

"Next  was  after  the  asylum,  when  I  was  thirteen  and 
living  with  my  brother — I've  lived  with  him  ever  since. 
He  was  a  boy  that  drove  a  bakery  wagon.  Almost  every 
morning,  on  the  way  to  school,  I  used  to  pass  him.  He 
would  come  driving  down  Wood  Street  and  turn  in  on 
Twelfth.  Maybe  it  was  because  he  drove  a  horse  that  at- 
tracted me.  Anyway,  I  must  have  loved  him  for  a  couple 
of  months.  Then  he  lost  his  job,  or  something,  for  another 
boy  drove  the  wagon.  And  we  'd  never  even  spoken  to  each 
other. 

"Then  there  was  a  bookkeeper  when  I  was  sixteen.  I 
seem  to  run  to  bookkeepers.  It  was  a  bookkeeper  at  the 
laundry  that  Charley  Long  beat  up.  This  other  one  was 
when  I  was  working  in  Hickmeyer's  Cannery.  He  had 
soft  hands,  too.  But  I  quickly  got  all  I  wanted  of  him. 
He  was  .  .  .  well,  anyway,  he  had  ideas  like  your  boss. 
And  I  never  really  did  love  him,  truly  and  honest,  Billy. 
I  felt  from  the  first  that  he  wasn't  just  right.  And  when 
I  was  working  in  the  paper-box  factory  I  thought  I  loved 
a  clerk  in  Kahn's  Emporium — you  know,  on  Eleventh  and 
Washington.  He  was  all  right.  That  was  the  trouble  with 
him.  He  was  too  much  all  right.  He  didn't  have  any  life 
in  him,  any  go.  He  wanted  to  marry  me,  though.  But 
somehow  I  couldn't  see  it.  That  shows  I  didn't  love  him. 
He  was  narrow-chested  and  skinny,  and  his  hands  were 
always  cold  and  fishy.  But  my!  he  could  dress — just  like 
he  came  out  of  a  bandbox.  He  said  he  was  going  to  drown 
himself,  and  all  kinds  of  things,  but  I  broke  with  him  just 
the  same. 

"And  after  that  .  .  .  well,  there  isn't  any  after  that. 
I  must  have  got  particular,  I  guess,  but  I  didn't  see  any- 
body I  could  love.  It  seemed  more  like  a  game  with  the 
men  I  met,  or  a  fight.  And  we  never  fought  fair  on  either 
side.  Seemed  as  if  we  always  had  cards  up  our  sleeves. 
We  weren't  honest  or  outspoken,  but  instead  it  seemed  as 
if  we  were  trying  to  take  advantage  of  each  other.  Charley 
Long  was  honest,  though.  And  so  was  that  bank  cashier. 
And  even  they  made  me  have  the  fight  feeling  harder  than 


THE    VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON  91 

ever.  All  of  them  always  made  me  feel  I  had  to  take  care 
of  myself.  They  wouldn't.  That  was  sure." 

She  stopped  and  looked  with  interest  at  the  clean  pro- 
file of  his  face  as  he  watched  and  guided  the  horses.  He 
looked  at  her  inquiringly,  and  her  eyes  laughed  lazily  into 
his  as  she  stretched  her  arms. 

' '  That 's  all, ' '  she  concluded.  "  I  Ve  told  you  everything, 
which  I've  never  done  before  to  any  one.  And  it's  your 
turn  now." 

"Not  much  of  a  turn,  Saxon.  I've  never  cared  for 
girls — that  is,  not  enough  to  want  to  marry  'em.  I  always 
liked  men  better — fellows  like  Billy  Murphy.  Beside*,  I 
guess  I  was  too  interested  in  trainin'  an'  fightin'  to  bother 
with  women  much.  Why,  Saxon,  honest,  while  I  ain't  ben 
altogether  good — you  understand  what  I  mean — just  the 
same  I  ain't  never  talked  love  to  a  girl  in  my  life.  They 
was  no  call  to." 

"The  girls  have  loved  you  just  the  same,"  she  teased, 
while  in  her  heart  was  a  curious  elation  at  his  virginal 
confession. 

He  devoted  himself  to  the  horses. 

"Lots  of  them, "-she  urged. 

Still  he  did  not  reply. 

"Now,  haven't  they?" 

"Well,  it  wasn't  my  fault,"  he  said  slowly.  "If  they 
wanted  to  look  sideways  at  me  it  was  up  to  them.  And  it 
was  up  to  me  to  sidestep  if  I  wanted  to,  wasn  't  it  ?  You  've 
no  idea,  Saxon,  how  a  prizefighter  is  run  after.  Why, 
sometimes  it's  seemed  to  me  that  girls  an'  women  ain't  got 
an  ounce  of  natural  shame  in  their  make-up.  Oh,  I  was 
never  afraid  of  them,  believe  muh,  but  I  didn't  hanker 
after  'em.  A  man's  a  fool  that'd  let  them  kind  get  his 
goat." 

"Maybe  you  haven't  got  love  in  you,"  she  challenged. 

"Maybe  I  haven't,"  was  his  discouraging  reply.  "Any- 
way, I  don't  see  myself  lovin'  a  girl  that  runs  after  me. 
It 's  all  right  for  Charley-boys,  but  a.  man  that  is  a  man 
don't  like  bein'  chased  by  women." 


92  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

"My  mother  always  said  that  love  was  the  greatest  thing 
in  the  world,"  Saxon  argued.  "She  wrote  poems  about 
it,  too.  Some  of  them  were  published  in  the  San  Jose 
Mercury." 

"What  do  you  think  about  it?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  baffled,  meeting  his  eyes  with 
another  lazy  smile.  "All  I  know  is  it's  pretty  good  to  be 
! alive  a  day  like  this." 

"  On  a  trip  like  this — you  bet  it  is, ' '  he  added  promptly. 

At  one  o'clock  Billy  turned  off  the  road  and  drove  into 
an  open  space  among  the  trees. 

"Here's  where  we  eat,"  he  announced.  "I  thought  it'd 
be  better  to  have  a  lunch  by  ourselves  than  stop  at  one  r*£ 
these  roadside  dinner  counters.  An'  now,  just  to  make 
everything  safe  an'  comfortable,  I'm  goin'  to  unharness 
the  horses.  We  got  lots  of  time.  You  can  get  the  lunch 
basket  out  an'  spread  it  on  the  lap-robe." 

As  Saxon  unpacked  the  basket  she  was  appalled  at  his 
extravagance.  She  spread  an  amazing  array  of  ham  and 
chicken  sandwiches,  crab  salad,  hard-boiled  eggs,  pickled 
pigs'  feet,  ripe  olives  and  dill  pickles,  Swiss  cheese,  salted 
almonds,  oranges  and  bananas,  and  several  pint  bottles  of 
beer.  It  was  the  quantity  as  well  as  the  variety  that  both- 
ered her.  It  had  the  appearance  of  a  reckless  attempt  to 
buy  out  a  whole  delicatessen  shop. 

"You  oughtn't  to  blow  yourself  that  way/'  she  reproved 
him  as  he  sat  down  beside  her.  "Why  it's  enough  for  half 
^  dozen  bricklayers." 

"It's  all  right,  isn't  it?" 

'  Yes, ' '  she  acknowledged.  ' '  But  that 's  the  trouble.  It  'a 
too  much  so. ' ' 

"Then  it's  all  right,"  he  concluded.  "I  always  believe 
in  havin'  plenty.  Have  some  beer  to  wash  the  dust  away 
before  we  begin?  Watch  out  for  the  glasses,  I  gotta  re- 
turn them." 

Later,  the  meal  finished,  he  lay  on  his  back,  smoking  a 
cigarette,  and  questioned  her  about  her  earlier  history 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON  93 

She  had  been  telling  him  of  her  life  in  her  brother's  house, 
where  she  paid  four  dollars  and  a  half  a  week  board.  At 
fifteen  she  had  graduated  from  grammar  school  and  gone 
to  work  in  the  jute  mills  for  four  dollars  a  week,  three  of 
which  she  had  paid  to  Sarah. 

"How  about  that  saloonkeeper?"  Billy  asked,  "How 
come  it  he  adopted  you?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  ' '  I  don 't  know,  except  that 
all  my  relatives  were  hard  up.  It  seemed  they  just 
couldn't  get  on.  They  managed  to  scratch  a  lean  living 
for  themselves,  and  that  was  all.  Cady — he  was  the  saloon- 
keeper— had  been  a  soldier  in  my  father's  company,  and 
he  always  swore  by  Captain  Kit,  which  was  their  nickname 
for  him.  My  father  had  kept  the  surgeons  from  amputat- 
ing his  leg  in  the  war,  and  he  never  forgot  it.  He  was 
making  money  in  the  hotel  and  saloon,  and  I  found  out 
afterward  he  helped  out  a  lot  to  pay  the  doctors  and  to 
bury  my  mother  alongside  of  father.  I  was  to  go  to  Uncle 
Will — that  was  my  mother's  wish;  but  there  had  been 
fighting  up  in  the  Ventura  Mountains  where  his  ranch  was, 
and  men  had  been  killed.  It  was  about  fences  and  cattle- 
men or  something,  and  anyway  he  was  in  jail  a  long  time, 
and  when  he  got  his  freedom  the  lawyers  had  got  his 
ranch.  He  was  an  old  man,  then,  and  broken,  and  his 
wife  took  sick,  and  he  got  a  job  as  night  watchman  for 
forty  dollars  a  month.  So  he  couldn't  do  anything  for 
me,  and  Cady  adopted  me. 

"Cady  was  a  good  man,  if  he  did  run  a  saloon.  His 
wife  was  a  big,  handsome-looking  woman.  I  don't  think 
she  was  all  right  .  .  .  and  I've  heard  so  since.  But 
she  was  good  to  me.  I  don 't  care  what  they  say  about  her, 
or  what  she  was.  She  was  awful  good  to  me.  After  he 
died,  she  went  altogether  bad,  and  so  I  went  into  the 
orphan  asylum.  It  wasn't  any  too  good  there,  and  I  had 
three  years  of  it.  And  then  Tom  had  married  and  settled 
down  to  steady  work,  and  he  took  me  out  to  live  with  him. 
And — well,  I've  been  working  pretty  steady  ever  since." 

She  gazed  sadly  away  across  the  fields  until  her  eyes 


94  THE    VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

came  to  rest  on  a  fence  bright-splashed  with  poppies  at  its 
base.  Billy,  who  from  his  supine  position  had  been  looking 
up  at  her,  studying  and  pleasuring  in  the  pointed  oval  of 
her  woman's  face,  reached  his  hand  out  slowly  as  he  mur- 
mured : 

"You  poor  little  kid." 

His  hand  closed  sympathetically  on  her  bare  forearm, 
and  as  she  looked  down  to  greet  his  eyes  she  saw  in  them 
surprise  and  delight. 

"Say,  ain't  your  skin  cool  though,"  he  said.  "Now  me, 
I'm  always  warm.  Feel  my  hand." 

It  was  warmly  moist,  and  she  noted  microscopic  beads 
of  sweat  on  his  forehead  and  clean-shaven  upper  lip. 

"My,  but  you  are  sweaty." 

She  bent  to  him  and  with  her  handkerchief  dabbed  his 
lip  and  forehead  dry,  then  dried  his  palms. 

"I  breathe  through  my  skin,  I  guess,"  he  explained. 
"The  wise  guys  in  the  trainin'  camps  and  gyms  say  it's 
a  good  sign  for  health.  But  somehow  I'm  sweatin'  more 
than  usual  now.  Funny,  ain  't  it  f  " 

She  had  been  forced  to  unclasp  his  hand  from  her  arm 
in  order  to  dry  it,  and  when  she  finished,  it  returned  to  its 
old  position. 

"But,  say,  ain't  your  skin  cool,"  he  repeated  with  re- 
newed wonder.  "Soft  as  velvet,  too,  an'  smooth  as  silk. 
It  feels  great." 

Gently  explorative,  he  slid  his  hand  from  wrist  to  elbow 
and  came  to  rest  half  way  back.  Tired  and  languid  from 
the  morning  in  the  sun,  she  found  herself  thrilling  to  his 
touch  and  half -dreamily  deciding  that  here  was  a  man  she 
could  love,  hands  and  all. 

"Now  I've  taken  the  cool  all  out  of  that  spot."  He  did 
not  look  up  to  her,  and  she  could  see  the  roguish  smile 
that  curled  on  his  lips.  "So  I  guess  I'll  try  another." 

He  shifted  his  hand  along  her  arm  with  soft  sensuous- 
ness,  and  she,  looking  down  at  his  lips,  remembered  the 
long  tingling  they  had  given  hers  the  first  time  they  had 
met. 


THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON  95 

"Go  on  and  talk,"  he  urged,  after  a  delicious  five  min- 
utes of  silence.  "I  like  to  watch  your  lips  talking.  It's 
funny,  but  every  move  they  make  looks  like  a  tickly  kiss.'* 

Greatly  she  wanted  to  stay  where  she  was.  Instead,  she 
said: 

"If  I  talk,  you  won't  like  what  I  say." 

"Go  on,"  he  insisted.  "You  can't  say  anything  I  won't 
like." 

"Well,  there's  some  poppies  over  there  by  the  fence  I 
want  to  pick.  And  then  it's  time  for  us  to  be  going." 

"I  lose,"  he  laughed.  "But  you  made  twenty-five  tickle 
kisses  just  the  same.  I  counted  'em.  I'll  tell  you  what: 
you  sing  '"When  the  Harvest  Days  Are  Over,'  and  let  me 
have  your  other  cool  arm  while  you're  doin'  it,  and  then 
we'll  go." 

She  sang  looking  down  into  his  eyes,  which  were  cen- 
tered, not  on  hers,  but  on  her  lips.  When  she  finished,  she 
slipped  his  hands  from  her  arms  and  got  up.  He  was. 
about  to  start  for  the  horses,  when  she  held  her  jacket  out 
to  him.  Despite  the  independence  natural  to  a  girl  who 
earned  her  own  living,  she  had  an  innate  love  of  the  little 
services  and  finenesses;  and,  also,  she  remembered  from 
her  childhood  the  talk  by  the  pioneer  women  of  the  cour- 
tesy and  attendance  of  the  caballeros  of  the  Spanish-Cal- 
ifornia days. 

Sunset  greeted  them  when,  after  a  wide  circle  to  the 
east  and  south,  they  cleared  the  divide  of  the  Contra  Costa 
hills  and  began  dropping  down  the  long  grade  that  led. 
past  Redwood  Peak  to  L'ruitvale.  Beneath  them  stretched 
the  flatlands  to  the  bay,  checkerboarded  into  fields  and 
broken  by  the  towns  of  Elmhurst,  San  Leandro,  and  Hay- 
wards.  The  smoke  of  Oakland  filled  the  western  sky  with 
haze  and  murk,  while  beyond,  across  the  bay,  they  could 
see  the  first  winking  lights  of  San  Francisco. 

Darkness  was  on  them,  and  Billy  had  become  curiously 
silent.  For  half  an  hour  he  had  given  no  recognition  of 
her  existence  save  once,  when  the  chill  evening  wind  caused 
him  to  tuck  the  robe  tightly  about  her  and  himself.  Habf 


96  THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

a  dozen  times  Saxon  found  herself  on  the  verge  of  the  re- 
mark,  ' '  What 's  on  your  mind  ? ' '  but  each  time  let  it  remain 
onuttered.  She  sat  very  close  to  him.  The  warmth  of 
their  bodies  intermingled,  and  she  was  aware  of  a  great 
restfulness  and  content. 

"Say,  Saxon,"  he  began  abruptly.  "It's  no  use  my 
holdin'  it  in  any  longer.  It's  ben  in  my  mouth  all  day, 
ever  since  lunch.  What's  the  matter  with  you  an'  m« 
gettin'  married?" 

She  knew,  very  quietly  and  very  gladly,  that  he  meant 
it.  Instinctively  she  was  impelled  to  hold  off,  to  make  him 
woo  her,  to  make  herself  more  desirably  valuable  ere  she 
yielded.  Further,  her  woman's  sensitiveness  and  pride 
were  offended.  She  had  never  dreamed  of  so  forthright 
and  bald  a  proposal  from  the  man  to  whom  she  would  give 
herself.  The  simplicity  and  directness  of  Billy's  proposal 
constituted  almost  a  hurt.  On  the  other  hand  she  wanted 
him  so  much — how  much  she  had  not  realized  until  now, 
when  he  had  so  unexpectedly  made  himself  accessible. 

"Well,  you  gotta  say  something,  Saxon.  Hand  it  to  me, 
good  or  bad;  but  anyway  hand  it  to  me.  An'  just  take 
into  consideration  that  I  love  you.  Why,  I  love  you  like 
the  very  devil,  Saxon.  I  must,  because  I'm  askin'  you  to 
marry  me,  an'  I  never  asked  any  girl  that  before." 

Another  silence  fell,  and  Saxon  found  herself  dwelling 
on  the  warmth,  tingling  now,  under  the  lap-robe.  When 
she  realized  whither  her  thoughts  led,  she  blushed  guiltily 
in  the  darkness. 

"How  old  are  you,  Billy?"  she  questioned,  with  a  sud- 
denness and  irrelevance  as  disconcerting  as  his  first  words 
had  been. 

"Twenty-two,"  he  answered. 

"I  am  twenty- f our. " 

"As  if  I  didn't  know.  When  you  left  the  orphan  asy- 
lum and  how  old  you  were,  how  long  you  worked  in  the 
jute  mills,  the  cannery,  the  paper-box  factory,  the  laundry 
— maybe  you  think  I  can't  do  addition.  I  knew  how  old 
you  was.  even  to  your  birthday." 


THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON  9* 

"That  doesn't  change  the  fact  that  I'm  two  years  older.** 

"What  of  it?  If  it,  counted  for  anything,  I  wouldn't 
be  lovin'  you,  would  I?  Your  mother  was  dead  right. 
Love's  the  big  stuff.  It's  what  counts.  Don't  you  see?  I 
just  love  you,  an'  I  gotta  have  you.  It's  natural,  I  guess; 
and  I've  always  found  with  horses,  dogs,  and  other  folks, 
that  what's  natural  is  right.  There's  no  gettin'  away 
from  it,  Saxon;  I  gotta  have  you,  an'  I'm  just  hopin'  hard 
you  gotta  have  me.  Maybe  my  hands  ain't  soft  like  book- 
keepers' an'  clerks,  but  they  can  work  for  you,  an'  fight 
like  Sam  Hill  for  you,  and,  Saxon,  they  can  love  you." 

The  old  sex  antagonism  which  she  had  always  experi- 
enced with  men  seemed  to  have  vanished.  She  had  no 
sense  of  being  on  the  defensive.  This  was  no  game.  It 
was  what  she  had  been  looking  for  and  dreaming  about. 
Before  Billy  she  was  defenseless,  and  there  was  an  all- 
satisfaction  in  the  knowledge.  She  could  deny  him  noth- 
ing. Not  even  if  he  proved  to  be  like  the  others.  And  out 
of  the  greatness  of  the  'thought  rose  a  greater  thought — 
he  would  not  so  prove  himself. 

She  did  not  speak.  Instead,  in  a  glow  of  spirit  and 
flesh,  she  reached  out  'to  his  left  hand  and  gently  tried  to 
remove  it  from  the  rein.  He  did  not  understand ;  but 
when  she  persisted  he  shifted  the  rein  to  his  right  and  let 
her  have  her  will  with  the  other  hand.  Her  head  bent  over 
it,  and  she  kissed  the  teamster  callouses. 

For  the  moment  he  was  stunned. 

"You  mean  it?"  he  stammered. 

For  reply,  she  kissed  the  hand  again  and  murmured: 

"I  love  your  hands,  Billy.  To  me  they  are  the  most 
beautiful  hands  in  the  world,  and  it  would  take  hours  of 
talking  to  tell  you  all  they  mean  to  me." 

"Whoa!"  he  called  to  the  horses. 

He  pulled  them  in  to  a  standstill,  soothed  them  with  his 
voice,  and  made  the  reins  fast  around  the  whip.  Then  he 
turned  to  her  with  arms  around  her  and  lips  to  lips. 

"Oh,  Billy,  I'll  make  you  a  good  wife,"  she  sobbed 
when  the  kiss  was  broken. 


98  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE    MOON 

He  kissed  her  wet  eyes  and  found  her  lips  again. 

"Now  you  know  what  I  was  thinkin'  and  why  I  was 
sweatin'  when  we  was  eatin'  lunch.  Just  seemed  I  couldn't 
hold  in  much  longer  from  tellin'  you.  Why,  you  know, 
you  looked  good  to  me  from  the  first  moment  I  spotted 
you." 

"And  I  think  I  loved  you  from  that  first  day,  too,  Billy, 
And  I  was  so  proud  of  you  all  that  day,  you  were  so  kind 
and  gentle,  and  so  strong,  and  the  way  the  men  all  re- 
spected you  and  the  girls  all  wanted  you,  and  the  way  you 
fought  those  three  Irishmen  when  I  was  behind  the  picnic 
table.  I  couldn't  love  or  marry  a  man  I  wasn't  proud  of, 
and  I'm  so  proud  of  you,  so  proud." 

"Not  half  as  much  as  I  am  right  now  of  myself,"  he 
answered,  "for  having  won  you.  It's  too  good  to  be  true. 
Maybe  the  alarm  clock '11  go  off  and  wake  me  up  in  a 
couple  of  minutes.  Well,  anyway,  if  it  does,  I'm  goin'  to 
make  the  best  of  them  two  minutes  first.  Watch,  out  I 
don't  eat  you,  I'm  that  hungry  for  you." 

He  smothered  her  in  an  embrace,  holding  her  so  tightly 
to  him  that  it  almost  hurt.  After  what  was  to  her  an 
age-long  period  of  bliss,  his  arms  relaxed  and  he  seemed 
to  make  an  effort  to  draw  himself  together. 

"An'  the  clock  ain't  gone  off  yet,"  he  whispered  against 
her  cheek.  "And  it's  a  dark  night,  an'  there's  Fruitvale 
right  ahead,  an'  if  there  ain't  King  and  Prince  standin' 
still  in  the  middle  of  the  road.  I  never  thought  the  time'd 
come  when  I  wouldn't  want  to  take  the  ribbons  on  a  fine 
pair  of  horses.  But  this  is  that  time.  I  just  can 't  let  gc 
of  you,  and  I  've  gotta  some  time  to-night.  It  hurts  worse '» 
poison,  but  here  goes." 

He  restored  her  to  herself,  tucked  the  disarranged  robe 
about  her,  and  chirruped  to  the  impatient  team. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  called  "Whoa!" 

"I  know  I'm  awake  now,  but  I  don't  know  but  maybe 
I  dreamed  all  the  rest,  and  I  just  want  to  make  sure." 

And  again  he  made  the  reins  fast  and  took  her  in  his 
arms. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  days  flew  by  for  Saxon.  She  worked  on  steadily  at 
the  laundry,  even  doing  more  overtime  than  usual,  and  all 
her  free  waking  hours  were  devoted  to  preparations  for 
the  great  change  and  to  Billy.  He  had  proved  himself 
God's  own  impetuous  lover  by  insisting  on  getting  married 
the  next  day  after  the  proposal,  and  then  by  resolutely 
refusing  to  compromise  on  more  than  a  week's  delay. 

"Why  wait?"  he  demanded.  "We're  not  gettin'  any 
younger  so  far  as  I  can  notice,  an'  think  of  all  we  lose 
every  day  we  wait. ' ' 

In  the  end,  he  gave  in  to  a  month,  which  was  well,  for 
in  two  weeks  he  was  transferred,  with  half  a  dozen  other 
drivers,  to  work  from  the  big  stables  of  Corberly  and 
Morrison  in  West  Oakland.  House-hunting  in  the  other 
end  of  town  ceased,  and  on  Pine  Street,  between  Fifth 
and  Fourth,  and  in  immediate  proximity  to  the  great 
Southern  Pacific  railroad  yards,  Billy  and  Saxon  rented 
a  neat  cottage  of  four  small  rooms  for  ten  dollars  a  month. 

"Dog-cheap  is  what  I  call  it,  when  I  think  of  the  small 
rooms  I've  ben  soaked  for,"  was  Billy's  judgment.  "Look 
at  the  one  I  got  now,  not  as  big  as  the  smallest  here,  an.' 
me  payin'  six  dollars  a  month  for  it." 

"But  it's  furnished,"  Saxon  reminded  him.  "You  see, 
that  makes  a  difference." 

But  Billy  didn  't  see. 

"I  ain't  much  of  a  scholar,  Saxon,  but  I  know  simple 
arithmetic;  I've  soaked  my  watch  when  I  was  hard  up, 
and  I  can  calculate  interest.  How  much  do  you  figure  it 
will  cost  to  furnish  the  house,  carpets  on  the  floor,  linoleum 
on  the  kitchen,  and  all?" 

"We  "<ian  do  it  nicely  for  tbr«e  hundred  dollars,"  she 

m 


100  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

answered.     "I've  been  thinking  it  over  and  I'm  sure  we 
can  do  it  for  that." 

' '  Three  hundred, ' '  he  muttered,  wrinkling  his  brows  with 
concentration.  "Three  hundred,  say  at  six  per  cent. — 
that'd  be  six  cents  on  the  dollar,  sixty  cents  on  ten  dollars, 
six  dollars  on  the  hundred,  on  three  hundred  eighteen 
dollars.  Say — I'm  a  bear  at  multiplyin'  by  ten.  Now 
divide  eighteen  by  twelve,  that'd  be  a  dollar  an'  a  half  a 
month  interest."  He  stopped,  satisfied  that  he  had  proved 
his  contention.  Then  his  face  quickened  with  a  fresh" 
thought.  "Hold  on!  That  ain't  all.  That'd  be  the  in- 
terest on  the  furniture  for  four  rooms.  Divide  by  four. 
What's  a  dollar  an'  a  half  divided  by  four?" 

"Four  into  fifteen,  three  times  and  three  to  carry,'* 
Saxon  recited  glibly.  "Four  into  thirty  is  seven,  twenty- 
eight,  two  to  carry;  and  two-fourths  is  one-half.  There 
you  are." 

"Gee!  You're  the  real  bear  at  figures."  He  hesitated. 
"I  didn't  follow  you.  How  much  did  you  say  it  was?" 

"  Thirty -seven  and  a  half  cents." 

"Ah,  ha!  Now  we'll  see  how  much  I've  ben  gouged  for 
my  one  room.  Ten  dollars  a  month  for  four  rooms  is  two 
an'  a  half  for  one.  Add  thirty-seven  an'  a  half  cents  in- 
terest on  furniture,  an'  that  makes  two  dollars  an'  eighty- 
seven  an' a  half  cents.  Subtract  from  six  dollars  .  .  ." 

"Three  dollars  and  twelve  and  a  half  cents,"  she  sup- 
plied quickly. 

"There  we  are!  Three  dollars  an'  twelve  an'  a  half 
jcents  I'm  jiggered  out  of  on  the  room  I'm  rentin'.  Say! 
tJein'  married  is  like  savin'  money,  ain't  it?" 

"But  furniture  wears  out,  Billy." 

"By  golly,  I  never  thought  of  that.  It  ought  to  be  fig- 
ured, too.  Anyway,  we've  got  a  snap  here,  and  next  Sat- 
urday afternoon  you've  gotta  get  off  from  the  laundry  so 
as  we  can  go  an'  buy  our  furniture.  I  saw  Salinger's  last 
night.  I  give'm  fifty  down,  and  the  rest  installment  plan, 
ten  dollars  a  month.  In  twenty-five  months  the  furniture's 
onrn.  An'  remember,  Saxon,  you  wants  buy  everything 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     101 

you  want,  no  matter  how  much  it  costs.  No  scrimpin'  on 
what's  for  you  an'  me.  Get  me?" 

She  nodded,  with  no  betrayal  on  her  face  of  the  myriad 
secret  economies  that  filled  her  mind.  A  hint  of  moisture 
glistened  in  her  eyes. 

"You're  so  good  to  me,  Billy,"  she  murmured,  as  she 
came  to  him  and  was  met  inside  his  arms. 

"So  you've  gone  an'  done  it,"  Mary  commented,  one 
morning  in  the  laundry.  They  had  not  been  at  work  ten 
minutes  ere  her  eye  had  glimpsed  the  topaz  ring  on  the 
third  finger  of  Saxon's  left  hand.  "Who's  the  lucky  one? 
Charley  Long  or  Billy  Roberts?" 

"Billy,"  was  the  answer. 

' '  Huh !    Takin '  a  young  boy  to  raise,  eh  ? " 

Saxon  showed  that  the  stab  had  gone  home,  and  Mary 
was  all  contrition. 

"Can't  you  take  a  josh?  I'm  glad  to  death  at  the  news. 
Billy's  a  awful  good  man,  and  I'm  glad  to  see  you  get 
him.  There  ain't  many  like  him  knockin'  'round,  an'  they 
ain't  to  be  had  for  the  askin'.  An'  you're  both  lucky. 
You  was  just  made  for  each  other,  an'  you'll  make  him  a 
better  wife  than  any  girl  I  know.  "When  is  it  to  be  ? " 

Going  home  from  the  laundry  a  few  days  later,  Saxon 
encountered  Charley  Long.  He  blocked  the  sidewalk,  and 
compelled  speech  with  her. 

"So  you're  runnin'  -with  a  prizefighter,"  he  sneered. 
"A  blind  man  can  see  your  finish." 

For  the  first  time  she  was  unafraid  of  this  big-bodied, 
black-browed  man  with  the  hairy -matted  hands  and  fingers. 
She  held  up  her  left  hand. 

"See  that?  It's  something,  with  all  your  strength,  that 
you  could  never  put  on  my  finger.  Billy  Roberts  put  it 
on  inside  a  week.  He  got  your  number,  Charley  Long, 
and  at  the  same  time  he  got  me." 

"Skiddoo  for  you,"  Long  retorted.  "Twenty-three's 
your  number." 

"He's  not  like  you,"  Saxon  went  on.  "He's  a  manr 
every  bit  of  him,  a  fine,  clean  man." 


102  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

Long  laughed  hoarsely. 

"He's  got  your  goat  all  right." 

"And  yours,"  she  flashed  back. 

"I  could  tell  you  things  about  him.  Saxon,  straight,  he 
ain't  no  good.  If  I  was  to  tell  you " 

"You'd  better  get  out  of  my  way,"  she  interrupted, 
'"or  I'll  tell  him,  and  you  know  what  you'll  get,  you  great 
big  bully." 

Long  shuffled  uneasily,  then  reluctantly  stepped  aside. 

"You're  a  caution,"  he  said,  half  admiringly. 

"So's  Billy  Roberts,"  she  laughed,  and  continued  on 
her  way.  After  half  a  dozen  steps  she  stopped.  "Say," 
she  called. 

The  big  blacksmith  turned  toward  her  with  eagernesa 

"About  a  block  back,"  she  said,  "I  saw  a  man  with  hip 
disease.  You  might  go  and  beat  him  up." 

Of  one  extravagance  Saxon  was  guilty  in  the  course  of 
the  brief  engagement  period.  A  full  day 's  wages  she  spent 
in  the  purchase  of  half  a  dozen  cabinet  photographs  of 
herself.  Billy  had  insisted  that  life  was  unendurable 
could  he  not  look  upon  her  semblance  the  last  thing  when 
he  went  to  bed  at  night  and  the  first  thing  when  he  got 
up  in  the  morning.  In  return,  his  photographs,  one  con- 
ventional and  one  in  the  stripped  fighting  costume  of  the 
ring,  ornamented  her  looking  glass.  It  was  while  gazing 
at  the  latter  that  she  was  reminded  of  her  wonderful 
mother's  tales  of  the  ancient  Saxons  and  sea-foragers  of 
the  English  coasts.  From  the  chest  of  drawers  that  had 
crossed  the  plains  she  drew  forth  another  of  her  several 
precious  heirlooms — a  scrap-book  of  her  mother's  in  which 
was  pasted  much  of  the  fugitive  newspaper  verse  of 
pioneer  California  days.  Also,  there  were  copies  of  paint- 
ings and  old  wood  engravings  from  the  magazines  of  a 
generation  and  more  before. 

Saxon  ran  the  pages  with  familiar  fingers  and  stopped 
at  the  picture  she  was  seeking.  Between  bold  headlands 
of  rock  and  under  a  gray  cloud-blown  sky,  a  dozen  boats, 
long  and  lean  and  dark,  beaked  like  monstrous  birds,  were 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     103 

landing  on  a  foam- whitened  beach  of  sand.  The  men  in 
the  boats,  half  naked,  huge-muscled  and  fair-haired,  wore 
winged  helmets.  In  their  hands  were  swords  and  spears, 
and  they  were  leaping,  waist-deep,  into  the  sea-wash  and 
wading  ashore.  Opposed  to  them,  contesting  the  landing, 
were  skin-clad  savages,  unlike  Indians,  however,  who  clus- 
tered on  the  beach  or  waded  into  the  water  to  their  knees. 
The  first  blows  were  being  struck,  and  here  and  there  the 
bodies  of  the  dead  and  wounded  rolled  in  the  surf.  One 
fair-haired  invader  lay  across  the  gunwale  of  a  boat,  the 
manner  of  his  death,  told  by  the  arrow  that  transfixed  his 
breast.  In  the  air,  leaping  past  him  into  the  water,  sword 
in  hand,  was  Billy.  There  was  no  mistaking  it.  The  strik- 
ing blondness,  the  face,  the  eyes,  the  mouth  were  the  same. 
The  very  expression  on  the  face  was  what  had  been  on 
Billy's  the  day  of  the  picnic  when  he  faced  the  three  wild 
Irishmen. 

Somewhere  out  of  the  ruck  of  those  warring  races  had 
emerged  Billy's  ancestors,  and  hers,  was  her  afterthought, 
as  she  closed  the  book  and  put  it  back  in  the  drawer.  And 
some  of  those  ancestors  had  made  this  ancient  and  bat- 
tered chest  of  drawers  which  had  crossed  the  salt  ocean 
and  the  plains  and  been  pierced  by  a  bullet  in  the  fight 
with  the  Indians  at  Little  Meadow.  Almost,  it  seemed,  she 
could  visualize  the  women  who  had  kept  their  pretties  and 
their  family  homespun  in  its  drawers — the  women  of  those 
wandering  generations  who  were  grandmothers  and  greater 
great  grandmothers  of  her  own  mother.  "Well,  she  sighed,, 
it  was  a  good  stock  to  be  born  of,  a  hard-working,  hard-| 
fighting  stock.  She  fell  to  wondering  what  her  life  would 
have  been  like  had  she  been  born  a  Chinese  woman,  or  an 
Italian  woman  like  those  she  saw,  head-shawled  or  bare- 
headed, squat,  ungainly  and  swarthy,  who  carried  great 
loads  of  driftwood  on  their  heads  up  from  the  beach.  Then 
she  laughed  at  her  foolishness,  remembered  Billy  and  the 
four-roomed  cottage  on  Pine  Street,  and  went  to  bed  with 
her  mind  filled  for  the  hundredth  time  with  the  details  o£ 
the  furniture. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

J<OuB  cattle  were  all  played  out,"  Saxon  was  sayings 
"and  winter  was  so  near  that  we  couldn't  dare  try  to 
cross  the  Great  American  Desert,  so  our  train  stopped  in 
Salt  Lake  City  that  winter.  The  Mormons  hadn't  got  bad 
yet,  and  they  were  good  to  us." 

"You  talk  as  though  you  were  there,"  Bert  commented. 

"My  mother  was,"  Saxon  answered  proudly.  "She  was 
nine  years  old  that  winter." 

They  were  seated  around  the  table  in  the  kitchen  of  the 
little  Pine  Street  cottage,  making  a  cold  lunch  of  sand- 
wiches, tamales,  and  bottled  beer.  It  being  Sunday,  the 
four  were  free  from  work,  and  they  had  come  early,  to 
work  harder  than  on  any  week  day,  washing  walls  and 
windows,  scrubbing  floors,  laying  carpets  and  linoleum, 
hanging  curtains,  setting  up  the  stove,  putting  the  kitchen 
utensils  and  dishes  away,  and  placing  the  furniture. 

"Go  on  with  the  story,  Saxon,"  Mary  begged.  "I'm 
just  dyin'  to  hear.  And  Bert,  you  just  shut  up  and 
listen. ' ' 

"Well,  that  winter  was  when  Del  Hancock  showed  up. 
He  was  Kentucky  born,  but  he'd  been  in  the  West  for 
years.  He  was  a  scout,  like  Kit  Carson,  and  he  knew  him 
well.  Many's  a  time  Kit  Carson  and  he  slept  under  the 
same  blankets.  They  were  together  to  California  and 
Oregon  with  General  Fremont.  Well,  Del  Hancock  was 
passing  on  his  way  through  Salt  Lake,  going  I  don't  know 
where  to  raise  a  company  of  Rocky  Mountain  trappers  to 
go  after  beaver  some  new  place  he  knew  about.  He  was  a 
handsome  man.  He  wore  his  hair  long  like  in  pictures, 
and  had  a  silk  sash  around  his  waist  he'd  learned  to  wear 
in  California  from  the  Spanish,  and  two  revolvers  in  his 
belt.  Any  woman  'd  fall  in  love  with  him  first  sight.  Well, 
104 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     105 

he  saw  Sadie,  who  was  my  mother's  oldest  sister,  and  I 
guess  she  looked  good  to  him,  for  he  stopped  right  there 
in  Salt  Lake  and  didn't  go  a  step.  He  was  a  great  Indian 
fighter,  too,  and  I  heard  my  Aunt  Villa  say,  when  I  was 
a  little  girl,  that  he  had  the  blackest,  brightest  eyes,  and 
that  the  way  he  looked  was  like  an  eagle.  He'd  fought 
duels,  too,  the  way  they  did  in  those  days,  and  he  wasn't 
afraid  of  anything. 

' '  Sadie  was  a  beauty,  and  she  flirted  with  him  and  drove 
him  crazy.  Maybe  she  wasn't  sure  of  her  own  mind,  I 
don't  know.  But  I  do  know  that  she  didn't  give  in  as 
easy  as  I  did  to  Billy.  Finally,  he  couldn't  stand  it  any 
more.  He  rode  up  that  night  on  horseback,  wild  as  could 
be.  'Sadie,'  he  said,  'if  you  don't  promise  to  marry  me 
to-morrow,  I'll  shoot  myself  to-night  right  back  of  the 
corral.'  And  he'd  have  done  it,  too,  and  Sadie  knew  it, 
and  said  she  would.  Didn't  they  make  love  fast  in  those 
days  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  Mary  sniffed.  "A  week  after  you 
first  laid  eyes  on  Billy  you  was  engaged.  Did  Billy  say 
he  was  going  to  shoot  himself  back  of  the  laundry  if  you 
turned  him  down?" 

"I  didn't  give  him  a  chance,"  Saxon  confessed.  "Any- 
way Del  Hancock  and  Aunt  Sadie  got  married  next  day. 
And  they  were  very  happy  afterward,  only  she  died.  And 
after  that  he  was  killed,  with  General  Ouster  and  all  the 
rest,  by  the  Indians.  He  was  an  old  man  by  then,  but  I 
guess  he  got  his  share  of  Indians  before  they  got  him.  Men 
like  him  always  died  fighting,  and  they  took  their  dead 
with  them.  I  used  to  know  Al  Stanley  when  I  was  a  little 
girl.  He  was  a  gambler,  but  he  was  game.  A  railroad 
man  shot  him  in  the  back  when  he  was  sitting  at  a  table. 
That  shot  killed  him,  too.  He  died  in  about  two  seconds. 
Brit  before  he  died  he'd  pulled  his  gun  and  put  three 
bullets  into  the  man  that  killed  him." 

"I  don't  like  fightin',"  Mary  protested.  "It  makes  me 
nervous.  Bert  gives  me  the  willies  the  way  he's  always 
lookin'  for  trouble.  There  ain't  no  sense  in  it." 


106  THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

"And  I  wouldn't  give  a  snap  of  my  fingers  for  a  man 
without  fighting  spirit,"  Saxon  answered.  ''Why,  we 
wouldn't  be  here  to-day  if  it  wasn't  for  the  fighting  spirit 
of  our  people  before  us." 

"You've  got  the  real  goods  of  a  fighter  in  Billy,"  Bert 
assured  her;  "a  yard  long  and  a  yard  wide  and  genuine 
A  Number  One,  long-fleeced  wool.  Billy's  a  Mohegan  with 
a  scalp-lock,  that's  what  he  is.  And  when  he  gets  his  mad 
up  it's  a  case  of  get  out  from  under  or  something  will  fall 
on  you — hard." 

"Just  like  that,"  Mary  added. 

Billy,  who  had  taken  no  part  in  the  conversation,  got 
up,  glanced  into  the  bedroom  off  the  kitchen,  went  into 
the  parlor  and  the  bedroom  off  the  parlor,  then  returned 
and  stood  gazing  with  puzzled  brows  into  the  kitchen  bed- 
room. 

"What's  eatin*  you,  old  man,"  Bert  queried.  "You 
look  as  though  you'd  lost  something  or  was  markin'  a 
three-way  ticket.  What  you  got  on  your  chest  ?  Cough  it 
up." 

"Why,  I'm  just  thinkin'  where  in  Sam  Hill's  the  bed 
an'  stuff  for  the  back  bedroom." 

"There  isn't  any,"  Saxon  explained.  "We  didn't  or- 
der any." 

"Then  I'll  see  about  it  to-morrow." 

"What  d'ye  want  another  bed  for?"  asked  Bert. 
"Ain't  one  bed  enough  for  the  two  of  you?" 

"You  shut  up,  Bert!"  Mary  cried.  "Don't  get 
raw." 

"Whoa,  Mary!"  Bert  grinned.  "Back  up.  You're  in 
the  wrong  stall  as  usual." 

"We  don't  need  that  room,"  Saxon  was  saying  to  Billy. 
"And  so  I  didn't  plan  any  furniture.  That  money  went 
to  buy  better  carpets  and  a  better  stove." 

Billy  came  over  to  her,  lifted  her  from  the  chair,  and 
seated  himself  with  her  on  his  knees. 

"That's  right,  little  girl.  I'm  glad  you  did.  The  best 
for  us  every  time.  And  to-morrow  night  I  want  you  to 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     107 

run  up  with  me  to  Salinger's  an'  pick  out  a  good  bedroom 
set  an'  carpet  for  that  room.  And  it  must  be  good.  Noth- 
in'  snide." 

"It  will  cost  fifty  dollars,"  she  objected. 

"That's  right,"  he  nodded.  "Make  it  cost  fifty  dollars 
and  not  a  cent  less.  We're  goin'  to  have  the  best.  And 
what 's  the  good  of  an  empty  room  ?  It  'd  make  the  house 
'look  cheap.  Why,  I  go  around  now,  seein'  this  little  nest 
just  as  it  grows  an'  softens,  day  by  day,  from  the  day  we 
paid  the  cash  money  down  an'  nailed  the  keys.  Why,  al- 
most every  moment  I'm  drivin'  the  horses,  all  day  long,  I 
just  keep  on  seein'  this  nest.  And  when  we're  married, 
I'll  go  on  seein'  it.  And  I  want  to  see  it  complete.  If 
that  room'd  be  bare-floored  an'  empty,  I'd  see  nothin'  but 
it  and  its  bare  floor  all  day  long.  I'd  be  cheated.  The 
house 'd  be  a  lie.  Look  at  them  curtains  you  put  up  in  it, 
Saxon.  That's  to  make  believe  to  the  neighbors  that  it's 
furnished.  Saxon,  them  curtains  are  lyin'  about  that 
room,  makin'  a  noise  for  every  one  to  hear  that  that  room's 
furnished.  Nitsky  for  us.  I'm  goin' to  see  that  them  cur- 
tains tell  the  truth." 

"You  might  rent  it,"  Bert  suggested.  "You're  close 
to  the  railroad  yards,  and  it's  only  two  blocks  to  a  res- 
taurant." 

"Not  on  your  life.  I  ain't  marryin'  Saxon  to  take  in 
lodgers.  If  I  can't  take  care  of  her,  d'ye  know  what  I'll 
do? — Go  down  to  Long  Wharf,  say  'Here  goes  nothin',' 
an'  jump  into  the  bay  with  a  stone  tied  to  my  neck.  Ain't 
'I  right,  Saxon?" 

It  was  contrary  to  her  prudent  judgment,  but  it  fanned 
her  pride.  She  threw  her  arms  around  her  lover's  neck, 
and  said,  ere  she  kissed  him: 

"You're  the  boss,  Billy.  What  you  say  goes,  and  always 
will  go." 

"Listen  to  that!"  Bert  gibed  to  Mary.  "That's  the 
stuff.  Saxon's  onto  her  job." 

"I  guess  we'll  talk  things  over  together  first  before  ever 
I  do  anything,"  Billy  was  saying  to  Saxon. 


108  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

"Listen  to  that,"  Mary  triumphed.  "You  bet  the  man 
that  marries  me '11  have  to  talk  things  over  first." 

' '  Billy 's  only  givin '  her  hot  air, ' '  Bert  plagued.  ' '  They 
all  do  it  before  they're  married." 

Mary  sniffed  contemptuously. 

"I'll  bet  Saxon  leads  him  around  by  the  nose.  And  I'm 
goin'  to  say,  loud  an'  strong,  that  I'll  lead  the  man  around 
by  the  nose  that  marries  me. ' ' 

"Not  if  you  love  him,"  Saxon  interposed. 

"All  the  more  reason,"  Mary  pursued. 

Bert  assumed  an  expression  and  attitude  of  mournful 
dejection. 

"Now  you  see  why  me  an'  Mary  don't  get  married," 
he  said.  "I'm  some  big  Indian  myself,  an'  I'll  be  ever- 
lastingly jiggerooed  if  I  put  up  for  a  wigwam  I  can't  be 
boss  of." 

"And  I'm  no  squaw,"  Mary  retaliated,  "an'  I  wouldn't 
marry  a  big  buck  Indian  if  all  the  rest  of  the  men  in  the 
world  was  dead." 

"Well  this  big  buck  Indian  ain't  asked  you  yet." 

"He  knows  what  he'd  get  if  he  did." 

"And  after  that  maybe  he'll  think  twice  before  he  does 
ask  you." 

Saxon,  intent  on  diverting  the  conversation  into  pleas- 
anter  channels,  clapped  her  hands  as  if  with  sudden  recol- 
lection. 

' '  Oh !  I  forgot !  I  want  to  show  you  something. ' '  From 
her  purse  she  drew  a  slender  ring  of  plain  gold  and  passed 
it  around.  "My  mother's  wedding  ring.  I've  worn  it 
l  around  my  neck  always,  like  a  locket.  I  cried  for  it  so  in 
the  orphan  asylum  that  the  matron  gave  it  back  for  me 
to  wear.  And  now,  just  to  think,  after  next  Tuesday  I'll 
be  wearing  it  on  my  finger.  Look,  Billy,  see  the  engraving 
on  the  inside." 

"C  to  D,  1879,"  he  read. 

"Carlton  to  Daisy — Carlton  was  my  father's  first  name. 
And  now,  Billy,  you've  got  to  get  it  engraved  for  you  and 
me." 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     109 

Mary  was  all  eagerness  and  delight. 

''Oh,  it's  fine,"  she  cried.    "W  to  S,  1907." 

Billy  considered  a  moment. 

"No,  that  wouldn't  be  right,  because  I'm  not  giving  it 
to  Saxon." 

"I'll  tell  you  what,"  Saxon  said.    "W  and  S." 

"Nope."  Billy  shook  his  head.  "S  and  W,  because 
you  come  first  with  me." 

"  If  I  come  first  with  you,  you  come  first  with  us.  Billy, 
dear,  I  insist  on  W  and  S." 

"You  see,"  Mary  said  to  Bert.  "Having  her  owvi  way 
and  leading  him  by  the  nose  already." 

Saxon  acknowledged  the  sting. 

"Anyway  you  want,  Billy,"  she  surrendered. 

His  arms  tightened  about  her. 

"We'll  talk  it  over  first,  I  guess." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

SARAH  was  <  onservative.  Worse,  she  had  crystallized  at 
the  end  of  her  love-time  with  the  coining  of  her  first  child. 
After  that  she  was  as  set  in  her  ways  as  plaster  in  a  mold. 
Her  mold  was  the  prejudices  and  notions  of  her  girlhood 
and  the  house  she  lived  in.  So  habitual  was  she  that  any 
change  in  the  customary  round  assumed  the  proportions 
of  a  revolution.  Tom  had  gone  through  many  of  these 
revolutions,  three  of  them  when  he  moved  house.  Then 
his  stamina  broke,  and  he  never  moved  house  again. 

So  it  was  that  Saxon  had  held  back  the  announcement 
of  her  approaching  marriage  until  it  was  unavoidable. 
She  expected  a  scene,  and  she  got  it. 

"A  prizefighter,  a  hoodlum,  a  plug-ugly,"  Sarah 
sneered,  after  she  had  exhausted  herself  of  all  calamitous 
forecasts  of  her  own  future  and  the  future  of  her  children 
in  the  absence  of  Saxon's  weekly  four  dollars  and  a  half. 
"I  don't  know  what  your  mother 'd  thought  if  she  lived 
to  see  the  day  when  you  took  up  with  a  tough  like  Bill 
Roberts.  Bill !  Why,  your  mother  was  too  refined  to  asso- 
ciate with  a  man  that  was  called  Bill.  And  all  I  can  say 
is  you  can  say  good-bye  to  silk  stockings  and  your  three 
pair  of  shoes.  It  won't  be  long  before  you'll  think  your- 
self lucky  to  go  sloppin'  around  in  Congress  gaiters  and 
cotton  stockin's  two  pair  for  a  quarter." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  afraid  of  Billy  not  being  able  to  keep  me 
in  all  kinds  of  shoes,"  Saxon  retorted  with  a  proud  toss 
of  her  head. 

"You  don't  know  what  you're  talkin'  about."  Sarah 
paused  to  laugh  in  mirthless  discordance.  "Watch  for 
the  babies  to  come.  They  come  faster  than  wages  raise 
these  days." 

110 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     111 

"But  we're  not  going  to  have  any  babies  .  .  .  that  Is, 
at  first.  Not  until  after  the  furniture  is  all  paid  for  any- 
way." 

"Wise  in  your  generation,  eh?  In  my  days  girls  were 
more  modest  than  to  know  anything  about  disgraceful  sub- 
jects." 

"As  babies?"  Saxon  queried,  with  a  touch  of  gentle 
malice. 

"Yes,  as  babies." 

"The  first  I  knew  that  babies  were  disgraceful.  Why, 
Sarah,  you,  with  your  five,  how  disgraceful  you  have  been. 
Billy  and  I  have  decided  not  to  be  half  as  disgraceful. 
We're  only  going  to  have  two — a  boy  and  a  girl." 

Tom  chuckled,  but  held  the  peace  by  hiding  his  face  in 
his  coffee  cup.  Sarah,  though  checked  by  this  flank  attack, 
was  herself  an  old  hand  in  the  art.  So  temporary  was  the 
setback  that  she  scarcely  paused  ere  hurling  her  assault 
from  a  new  angle. 

"An'  marryin'  so  quick,  all  of  a  sudden,  eh?  If  that 
ain't  suspicious,  nothin'  is.  I  don't  know  what  young 
women's  comin'  to.  They  ain't  decent,  I  tell  you.  They 
ain't  decent.  That's  what  comes  of  Sunday  dancin'  an' 
all  the  rest.  Young  women  nowadays  are  like  a  lot  of 
animals.  Such  fast  an' looseness  I  never  saw  .  .  ." 

Saxon  was  white  with  anger,  but  while  Sarah  wandered 
on  in  her  diatribe,  Tom  managed  to  wink  privily  and  pro- 
digiously at  his  sister  and  to  implore  her  to  help  in  keep- 
ing the  peace. 

"It's  all  right,  kid  sister,"  he  comforted  Saxon  when 
they  were  alone.  "There's  no  use  talkin'  to  Sarah.  Bill 
Roberts  is  a  good  boy.  I  know  a  lot  about  him.  It  does 
you  proud  to  get  him  for  a  husband.  You're  bound  to  be 
happy  with  him  .  .  ."  His  voice  sank,  and  his  face 
seemed  suddenly  to  be  very  old  and  tired  as  he  went  on 
anxiously.  "Take  warning  from  Sarah.  Don't  nag. 
Whatever  you  do,  don^t  nag.  Don't  give  him  a  perpetual- 
motion  line  of  chin.  Kind  of  let  him  talk  once  in  a  while. 
Men  have  some  horse  sense,  though  Sarah  don't  know  it. 


112  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

Why,  Sarah  actually  loves  me,  though  she  don't  make  a 
noise  like  it.  The  thing  for  you  is  to  love  your  husband, 
and,  by  thunder,  to  make  a  noise  of  lovin'  him,  too.  And 
then  you  can  kid  him  into  doing  'most  anything  you  want. 
Let  him  have  his  way  once  in  a  while,  and  he'll  let  you 
have  yourn.  But  you  just,  go  on  lovin'  him,  and  leanin  * 
on  his  judgment — he's  no  fool — and  you'll  be  all  hunky- 
dory.  I'm  scared  from  go  in'  wrong,  what  of  Sarah.  But 
I'd  sooner  be  loved  into  not  going  wrong." 

"Oh,  I'll  do  it,  Tom,"  Saxon  nodded,  smiling  through 
the  tears  his  sympathy  had  brought  into  her  eyes.  "And 
on  top  of  it  I'm  going  to  do  something  else.  I'm  going  to 
make  Billy  love  me  and  just  keep  on  loving  me.  And  then 
I  won't  have  to  kid  him  into  doing  some  of  the  things  I 
want.  He  '11  do  them  because  he  loves  me,  you  see. ' ' 

"You  got  the  right  idea,  Saxon.  Stick  with  it,  an'  you'll 
win  out." 

Later,  when  she  had  put  on  her  hat  to  start  for  the  laun- 
dry, she  found  Tom  waiting  for  her  at  the  corner. 

"An',  Saxon,"  he  said,  hastily  and  haltingly,  "you  won't 
take  anything  I've  said  ,  .  .  you.  know  .  .  .  about 
Sarah  .  .  .  as  bein '  in  any  way  disloyal  to  her  ?  She's 
a  good  woman,  an'  faithful.  An'  her  life  ain't  so  easy  by 
a  long  shot.  I'd  bite  out  my  tongue  before  I'd  say  any- 
thing against  her.  I  guess  all  folks  have  their  troubles. 
It's  heil  to  be  poor,  ain't  it?" 

"You've  been  awful  good  to  me,  Tom.  I  can  never  for- 
get it.  And  I  know  Sarah  means  right.  She  does  do  her 
best." 

"I  won't  be  able  to  give  you  a  wedding  present,"  her 
brother  ventured  apologetically.  "Sarah  won't  hear  of  it. 
Says  we  didn't  get  none  from  my  folks  when  we  got  mar- 
ried. But  I  got  something  for  you  just  the  same.  A  sur- 
prise. You'd  never  guess  it." 

Saxon  waited. 

""When  you  told  me  you  was  goin'  to  get  married,  I  jus?, 
happened  to  think  of  it,  an'  I  wrote  to  brother  George, 
askin'  him  for  it  for  you.  An'  by  thunder  he  sent  it  by 


THE    VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON  1W 

express.  I  didn't  tell  you  because  I  didn't  know  but  may- 
be he'd  sold  it.  He  did  sell  the  silver  spurs.  He  needed 
the  money,  I  guess.  But  the  other,  I  had  it  sent  to  the 
shop  so  as  not  to  bother  Sarah,  an'  I  sneaked  it  in  last 
aight  an'  hid  it  in  the  woodshed." 

"Oh,  it  is  something  of  my  father's!  What  is  it?  Oh, 
jwhat  is  it?" 

"His  army  sword." 

"The  one  he  wore  on  his  roan  war  horse!  Oh,  Tom,  you 
couldn't  give  me  a  better  present.  Let's  go  back  now.  I 
'want  to  see  it.  We  can  slip  in  the  back  way.  Sarah's 
washing  in  the  kitchen,  and  she  won't  begin  hanging  out 
for  an  hour. ' ' 

"I  spoke  to  Sarah  about  lettin'  you  take  the  old  chest 
of  drawers  that  was  your  mother's,"  Tom  whispered,  as 
they  stole  along  the  narrow  alley  between  the  houses. 
"Only  she  got  on  her  high  horse.  Said  that  Daisy  was  as 
much  my  mother  as  yourn,  even  if  we  did  have  different 
fathers,  and  that  the  chest  had  always  belonged  in  Daisy's 
family  and  not  Captain  Kit's,  an'  that  it  was  mine,  an' 
what  was  mine  she  had  some  say-so  about." 

"It's  all  right,"  Saxon  reassured  him.  "She  sold  it  to 
me  last  night.  She  was  waiting  up  for  me  when  I  got 
home  with  fire  in  her  eye." 

"Yep,  she  was  on  the  warpath  all  day  after  I  men- 
tioned it.  How  much  did  you  give  her  for  it?" 

"Six  dollars." 

"Robbery— it  ain't  worth  it,"  Tom  groaned.  "It's  all 
{cracked  at  one  end  and  as  old  as  the  hills." 

"  I  'd  have  given  ten  dollars  for  it.  I  'd  have  given  'most 
anything  for  it,  Tom.  It  was  mother's,  you  know.  I  re- 
member it  in  her  room  when  she  was  still  alive." 

In  the  woodshed  Tom  resurrected  the  hidden  treasure 
and  took  off  the  wrapping  paper.  Appeared  a  rusty,  steel- 
scabbarded  saber  of  the  heavy  type  carried  by  cavalry  offi- 
cers in  Civil  War  days.  It  was  attached  to  a  moth-eaten 
sash  of  thick-woven  crimson  silk  from  which  hung  heavy 
silk  tassels.  Saxon  almost  seized  it  from  her  brother  in 


114  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

her  eagerness.    She  drew  forth  the  blade  and  pressed  her 
lips  to  the  steel. 

It  was  her  last  day  at  the  laundry.  She  was  to  quit 
work  that  evening  for  good.  And  the  next  afternoon,  at 
five,  she  and  Billy  were  to  go  before  a  justice  of  the  peace 
and  be  married.  Bert  and  Mary  were  to  be  the  witnesses, 
and  after  that  the  four  were  to  go  to  a  private  room  ic 
Barnum's  Restaurant  for  the  wedding  supper.  That  over, 
Bert  and  Mary  would  proceed  to  a  dance  at  Myrtle  Hall, 
while  Billy  and  Saxon  would  take  the  Eighth  Street  car 
to  Seventh  and  Pine.  Honeymoons  are  infrequent  in  the 
working  class.  The  next  morning  Billy  must  be  at  the 
stable  at  his  regular  hour  to  drive  his  team  out. 

All  the  women  in  the  fancy  starch  room  knew  it  was 
Saxon's  last  day.  Many  exulted  for  her,  and  not  a  few 
were  envious  of  her,  in  that  she  had  won  a  husband  and 
to  freedom  from  the  suffocating  slavery  of  the  ironing 
board.  Much  of  bantering  she  endured ;  such  was  the  fate 
of  every  girl  who  married  out  of  the  fancy  starch  room. 
But  Saxon  was  too  happy  to  be  hurt  by  the  teasing,  a 
great  deal  of  which  was  gross,  but  all  of  which  was  good- 
natured. 

In  the  steam  that  arose  from  under  her  iron,  and  on  the 
surfaces  of  the  dainty  lawns  and  muslins  that  new  under 
her  hands,  she  kept  visioning  herself  in  the  Pine  Street 
cottage;  and  steadily  she  hummed  under  her  breath  he: 
paraphrase  of  the  latest  popular  song: 

"And  when  I  work,  and  when  I  work, 
I'll  always  work  for  Billy." 

By  three  in  the  afternoon  the  strain  of  the  piece-workers 
in  the  humid,  heated  room  grew  tense.  Elderly  women 
gasped  and  sighed ;  the  color  went  out  of  the  cheeks  of  the 
young  women,  their  faces  became  drawn  and  dark  circles 
formed  under  their  eyes ;  but  all  held  on  with  weary,  un- 
abated speed.  The  tireless,  vigilant  forewoman  kept  a 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     115 

sharp  lookout  for  incipient  hysteria,  and  once  led  a  nar- 
row-chested, stoop-shouldered  young  thing  out  of  the  place 
in  time  to  prevent  a  collapse. 

Saxon  was  startled  by  the  wildest  scream  of  terror  she 
had  ever  heard.  The  tense  thread  of  human  resolution 
snapped;  wills  and  nerves  broke  down,  and  a  hundred 
/Women  suspended  their  irons  or  dropped  them.  It  was 
Mary  who  had  screamed  so  terribly,  and  Saxon  saw  a 
strange  black  animal  flapping  great  claw-like  wings  and 
nestling  on  Mary's  shoulder.  With  the  scream,  Mary 
crouched  down,  and  the  strange  creature,  darting  into  the 
air,  fluttered  full  into  the  startled  face  of  a  woman  at  the 
next  board.  This  woman  promptly  screamed  and  fainted. 
Into  the  air  again,  the  flying  thing  darted  hither  and 
thither,  while  the  shrieking,  shrinking  women  threw  up 
their  arms,  tried  to  run  away  along  the  aisles,  or  cowered 
under  their  ironing  boards. 

"It's  only  a  bat!"  the  forewoman  shouted.  She  was 
furious.  "Ain't  you  ever  seen  a  bat?  It  won't  eat  you!" 

But  they  were  ghetto  people,  and  were  not  to  be  quieted. 
Some  woman  who  could  not  see  the  cause  of  the  uproar, 
out  of  her  overwrought  apprehension  raised  the  cry  of  fire 
and  precipitated  the  panic  rush  for  the  doors.  All  of  them 
were  screaming  the  stupid,  soul-sickening  high  note  of 
terror,  drowning  the  forewoman's  voice.  Saxon  had  been 
merely  startled  at  first,  but  the  screaming  panic  broke  her 
grip  on  herself  and  swept  her  away.  Though  she  did  not 
scream,  she  fled  with  the  rest.  When  this  horde  of  crazed 
Vomen  debouched  on  the  next  department,  those  who 
worked  there  joined  in  the  stampede  to  escape  from  they 
knew  not  what  danger.  In  ten  minutes  the  laundry  was 
deserted,  save  for  a  few  men  wandering  about  with  hand 
grenades  in  futile  search  for  the  cause  of  the  disturbance. 

The  forewoman  was  stout,  but  indomitable.  Swept  along 
half  the  length  of  an  aisle  by  the  terror-stricken  women, 
she  had  broken  her  way  back  through  the  rout  and  quickly 
caught  the  light-blinded  visitant  in  a  clothes  basket. 

"Maybe  I  don't  know  what  God  looks  like,  but  take  it 


116  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

from  me  I've  seen  a  tintype  of  the  devil,"  Mary  gurgled, 
emotionally  fluttering  back  and  forth  between  laughter 
and  tears. 

But  Saxon  was  angry  with  herself,  for  she  had  been  as 
frightened  as  the  rest  in  that  wild  flight  for  out-of-doors. 

"We're  a  lot  of  fools,"  she  said.    "It  was  only  a  bat. 
I've  heard  about  them.     They  live  in  the  country.     They 
wouldn't  hurt  a  fly.    They  can't  see  in  the  daytime.    That' 
was  what  was  the  matter  with  this  one.     It  was  only  a 
bat." 

"Huh,  you  can't  string  me,"  Mary  replied.  "It  was  the 
devil."  She  sobbed  a  moment,  and  then  laughed  hyster- 
ically again.  "Did  you  see  Mrs.  Bergstrom  faint?  And 
it  only  touched  her  in  the  face.  "Why,  it  was  on  my  shoul- 
der and  touching  my  bare  neck  like  the  hand  of  a  corpse. 
And  I  didn't  faint."  She  laughed  again.  "I  guess,  may- 
be, I  was  too  scared  to  faint. ' ' 

"Come  on  back,"  Saxon  urged.  "We've  lost  half  an 
hour." 

"Not  me.  I'm  goin'  home  after  that,  if  they  fire  me. 
I  couldn't  iron  for  sour  apples  now,  I'm  that  shaky." 

One  woman  had  broken  a  leg,  another  an  arm,  and  a 
number  nursed  milder  bruises  and  bruises.  No  bullying 
nor  entreating  of  the  forewoman  could  persuade  the  women 
to  return  to  wrork.  They  were  too  upset  and  nervous,  and 
only  here  and  there  could  one  be  found  brave  enough  to 
re-enter  the  building  for  the  hats  and  lunch  baskets  of 
the  others.  Saxon  was  one  of  the  handful  that  returned) 
and  worked  till  six  o'clock. 


CHAPTER  XV 

"WHY,  Bert! — you're  squiffed!"  Mary  cried  reproach- 
fully. 

The  four  were  at  the  table  in  the  private  room  at  Bar- 
num's.  The  wedding  supper,  simple  enough,  but  seemingly 
too  expensive  to  Saxon,  had  been  eaten.  Bert,  in  his  hand 
a  glass  of  California  red  wine,  which  the  management  sup- 
plied for  fifty  cents  a  bottle,  was  on  his  feet  endeavoring 
a  speech.  His  face  was  flushed;  his  black  eyes  were  fev- 
erishly bright. 

"You've  ben  drinkin'  before  you  met  me,"  Mary  con- 
tinued. "I  can  see  it  stickin'  out  all  over  you." 

''Consult  an  oculist,  my  dear,"  he  replied.  "Bertram 
is  himself  to-night.  An'  he  is  here,  arisin'  to  his  feet  to 

give  the  glad  hand  to  his  old  pal.  Bill,  old  man,  here 's 

to  you.  It's  how-de-do  an'  good-bye,  I  guess.  You're  a 
married  man  now,  Bill,  an'  you  got  to  keep  regular  hours. 
No  more  runnin'  around  with  the  boys.  You  gotta  take 
•care  of  yourself,  an'  get  your  life  insured,  an'  take  out  an 
accident  policy,  an'  join  a  buildin'  an'  loan  society,  an'  a 
buryin'  association " 

"Now  you  shut  up,  Bert,"  Mary  broke  in.  "You  don't 
talk  about  buryin 's  at  weddings.  You  oughta  be  ashamed 
of  yourself." 

"Whoa,  Mary!  Back  up!  I  said  what  I  said  because 
I  meant  it.  I  ain't  tliinkin'  what  Mary  thinks.  What  I 
was  thinkin'  .  .  .  Let  me  tell  you  what  I  was  thinkin'. 
I  said  buryin '  association,  didn  't  I  ?  Well,  it  was  not  with 
the  idea  of  castin'  gloom  over  this  merry  gatherin'.  Far 
be  it.  .  .  ." 

He  was  so  evi^^ntly  seeking  a  way  out  of  his  predica- 
117 


118  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

meat,  that  Mary  tossed  her  head  triumphantly.  This 
acted  as  a  spur  to  his  reeling  wits. 

"Let  me  tell  you  why,"  he  went  on.  "Because,  Bill, 
you  got  such  an  all-fired  pretty  wife,  that's  why.  All  the 
fellows  is  crazy  over  her,  an'  when  they  get  to  runnin' 
after  her,  what '11  you  be  doin'?  You'll  be  gettin'  busy. 
And  then  won't  you  need  a  buryin'  association  to  bury 
}em  ?  I  just  guess  yes.  That  was  the  compliment  to  your 
good  taste  in  skirts  I  was  tryin'  to  come  across  with  when 
Mary  butted  in." 

His  glittering  eyes  rested  for  a  moment  in  bantering 
triumph  on  Mary. 

"Who  says  I'm  squiffed?  Me?  Not  on  your  life.  I'm 
seein'  all  things  in  a  clear  white  light.  An'  I  see  Bill 
there,  my  old  friend  Bill.  An*  I  don't  see  two  Bills.  I 
see  only  one.  Bill  was  never  two-faced  in  his  life.  Bill, 
old  man,  when  I  look  at  you  there  in  the  married  harness, 

I'm  sorry "  He  ceased  abruptly  and  turned  on  Mary. 

"Now  don't  go  up  in  the  air,  old  girl.  I'm  onto  my  job. 
My  grandfather  was  a  state  senator,  and  he  could  spiel 
graceful  an'  pleasin'  till  the  cows  come  home.  So  can  I. 
— —Bill,  when  I  look  at  you,  I'm  sorry.  I  repeat,  I'm 
sorry."  He  glared  challengingly  at  Mary.  "For  myself 
Tehen  I  look  at  you  an'  know  all  the  happiness  you  got  a 
hammerlock  on.  Take  it  from  me,  you're  a  wise  guy,  bless 
the  women.  You've  started  well.  Keep  it  up.  Marry  'em 
all,  bless  'em.  Bill,  here's  to  you.  You're  a  Mohegan  with 
a  scalplock.  An'  you  got  a  squaw  that  is  some  squaw,  take 
it  from  me.  Minnehaha,  here's  to  you — to  the  two  of  you 
— an '  to  the  papooses,  too,  gosh-dang  them ! ' ' 

He  drained  the  glass  suddenly  and  collapsed  in  his 
chair,  blinking  his  eyes  across  at  the  wedded  couple  while 
tears  trickled  unheeded  down  his  cheeks.  Mary's  hand 
went  out  soothingly  to  his,  completing  his  break-down. 

"By  God,  I  got  a  right  to  cry,"  he  sobbed.  "I'm  losin' 
my  best  friend,  ain't  I?  It'll  never  be  the  same  again 
.  .  .  never.  When  I  think  of  the  fun,  an'  scrapes,  an' 
good  times  Bill  an'  me  has  had  together,  I  could  darn 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     119 

near  hate  you,  Saxon,  sittin'  there  with  your  hand  ic 
his." 

"Cheer  up,  Bert,"  she  laughed  gently.  "Look  at  whose 
hand  you  are  holding." 

"Aw,  it's  only  one  of  his  cryin'  jags,"  Mary  said,  with 
a  harshness  that  her  free  hand  belied  as  it  caressed  his 
hair  with  soothing  strokes.  "Buck  up,  Bert.  Every- 
thing's all  right.  And  now  it's  up  to  Bill  to  say  some* 
thing  after  your  dandy  spiel." 

Bert  recovered  himself  quickly  with  another  glass  of 
wine. 

"Kick  in,  Bill,"  he  cried.    "It's  your  turn  now." 

"I'm  no  hot-air  artist,"  Billy  grumbled.  "What '11  I 
say,  Saxon?  They  ain't  no  use  tellin'  'em  how  happy  we 
are.  They  know  that." 

"Tell  them  we're  always  going  to  be  happy,"  she  said. 
"And  thank  them  for  all  their  good  wishes,  and  we  both 
wish  them  the  same.  And  we're  always  going  to  be  to- 
gether, like  old  times,  the  four  of  us.  And  tell  them 
they're  invited  down  to  507  Pine  Street  next  Sunday  for 

Sunday  dinner.  And,  Mary,  if  you  want  to  come 

Saturday  night  you  can  sleep  in  the  spare  bedroom." 

"You've  told'm  yourself,  better 'n  I  could."  Billy 
clapped  his  hands.  "You  did  yourself  proud,  an'  I  guess 
they  ain't  much  to  add  to  it,  but  just  the  same  I'm  goin' 
to  pass  them  a  hot  one." 

He  stood  up,  his  hand  on  his  glass.  His  clear  blue  eyes-, 
under  the  dark  brows  and  framed  by  the  dark  lashes, 
seemed  a  deeper  blue,  and  accentuated  the  blondness  of 
hair  and  skin.  The  smooth  cheeks  were  rosy — not  with 
wine,  for  it  was  only  his  second  glass — but  with  health 
and  joy.  Saxon,  looking  up  at  him,  thrilled  with  pride  in 
him,  he  was  so  well-dressed,  so  strong,  so  handsome,  so 
clean-looking — her  man-boy.  And  she  was  aware  of  pride 
in  herself,  in  her  woman's  desirableness  that  had  won  for 
her  so  wonderful  a  lover. 

"Well,  Bert  an'  Mary,  here  you  are  at  Saxon's  and  my 
wedding  supper.  We're  just  goin'  to  take  all  your  good 


120  THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

wishes  to  heart,  we  wish  you  the  same  back,  and  when  we 
say  it  we  mean  more  than  you  think  we  mean.  Saxon  an' 
I  believe  in  tit  for  tat.  So  we're  wishin'  for  the  day  when 
the  table  is  turned  clear  around  an*  we're  sittin'  as  guests 
at  your  wed  din'  supper.  And  then,  when  you  come  to 
Sunday  dinner,  you  can  both  stop  Saturday  night  in  the 
spare  bedroom.  I  guess  I  was  wised  up  when  I  furnished 
it,  eh?" 

"I  never  thought  it  of  you,  Billy!"    Mary  exclaimed. 

"You're  every  bit  as  raw  as  Bert.     But  just  the  same 
» 

There  was  a  rush  of  moisture  to  her  eyes.  Her  voica 
faltered  and  broke.  She  smiled  through  her  tears  at  them, 
then  turned  to  look  at  Bert,  who  put  his  arm  around  her 
and  gathered  her  on  to  his  knees. 

When  they  left  the  restaurant,  the  four  walked  to 
Eighth  and  Broadway,  where  they  stopped  beside  the  elec- 
tric car.  Bert  and  Billy  were  awkward  and  silent,  op- 
pressed by  a  strange  aloofness.  But  Mary  embraced  Saxon 
with  fond  anxiousness. 

"It's  all  right,  dear,"  Mary  whispered.  "Don't  be 
scared.  It's  all  right.  Think  of  all  the  other  women  in 
the  world." 

The  conductor  clanged  the  gong,  and  the  two  couples 
separated  in  a  sudden  hubbub  of  farewell. 

"Oh,  you  Mohegan!"  Bert  called  after,  as  the  car  got 
under  way.  "Oh,  you  Minnehaha!" 

' '  Remember  what  I  said, ' '  was  Mary 's  parting  to  Saxon. 

The  car  stopped  at  Seventh  and  Pine,  the  terminus  of 
the  line.  It  was  only  a  little  over  two  blocks  to  the  cot- 
tage. On  the  front  steps  Billy  took  the  key  from  his 
pocket. 

"Funny,  isn't  it?"  he  said,  as  the  key  turned  in  the 
lock.  "You  an'  me.  Just  you  an'  me." 

While  he  lighted  the  lamp  in  the  parlor,  Saxon  was  tak- 
ing off  her  hat.  He  went  into  the  bedroom  and  lighted 
the  lamp  there,  then  turned  back  and  stood  in  the  door- 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     121 

way.  Saxon,  still  unaccountably  fumbling  with  her  hat- 
pins, stole  a  glance  at  him.  He  held  out  his  arms. 

"Now,"  he  said. 

She  came  to  him,  and  in  his  arms  he  could  feel  her 
trembling. 


THE  VALLEY  OF   THE   MOON 
BOOK  II 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  first  evening  after  the  marriage  night  Saxon  met 
Billy  at  the  door  as  he  came  up  the  front  steps.  After 
their  embrace,  and  as  they  crossed  the  parlor  hand  in  hand 
toward  the  kitchen,  he  filled  his  lungs  through  his  nostrils 
with  audible  satisfaction. 

"My,  but  this  house  smells  good,  Saxon!  It  ain't  the 
coffee — I  can  smell  that,  too.  It's  the  whole  house.  It 
smells  .  .  .  well,  it  just  smells  good  to  me,  that's  all." 

He  washed  and  dried  himself  at  the  sink,  while  she 
heated  the  frying  pan  on  the  front  hole  of  the  stove  with 
the  lid  off.  As  he  wiped  his  hands  he  watched  her  keenly, 
and  cried  out  with  approbation  as  she  dropped  the  steak 
in  the  f lying  pan. 

" Where 'd  you  learn  to  cook  steak  on  a  dry,  hot  pan? 
It's  the  only  way,  but  darn  few  women  seem  to  know 
about  it." 

As  she  took  the  cover  off  a  second  frying  pan  and  stirred 
the  savory  contents  with  a  kitchen  knife,  he  came  behind 
her,  passed  his  arms  under  her  arm-pits  with  down-droop- 
ing hands  upon  her  breasts,  and  bent  his  head  over  her 
shoulder  till  cheek  touched  cheek. 

"Una — um — um-m-m!  Fried  potatoes  with  onions  like 
mother  used  to  make.  Me  for  them.  Don't  they  smell 
good,  though!  Um — um — m-m-m!" 

The  pressure  of  his  hands  relaxed,  and  his  cheek  slid 
caressingly  past  hers  as  he  started  to  release  her.  Then 
his  hands  closed  down  again.  She  felt  his  lips  on  her 
hair  and  heard  his  advertised  inhalation  of  delight. 

"Um — um — m-m-m!  Don't  you  smell  good  yourself, 
though!  I  never  understood  what  they  meant  when  they 
said  a  girl  was  sweet.  I  know,  now.  And  you're  the 
sweetest  I  ever  knew." 

125 


126  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

His  joy  was  boundless.  When  he  returned  from  comb- 
ing his  hair  in  the  bedroom  and  sat  down  at  the  small 
table  opposite  her,  he  paused  with  knife  and  fork  in 
hand. 

"Say,  bein'  married  is  a  whole  lot  more  than  it's  cracked 
up  to  be  by  most  married  folks.  Honest  to  God,  Saxon,  we 
can  show  'em  a  few.  We  can  give  'em  cards  and  spades 
an'  little  casino  an'  win  out  on  big  casino  and  the  aces. 
I've  got  but  one  kick  comin'." 

The  instant  apprehension  in  her  eyes  provoked  a  chuckle 
from  him. 

"An'  that  is  that  we  didn't  get  married  quick  enough. 
Just  think.  I've  lost  a  whole  week  of  this." 

Her  eyes  shone  with  gratitude  and  happiness,  and  in 
her  heart  she  solemnly  pledged  herself  that  never  in  all 
their  married  life  would  it  be  otherwise. 

Supper  finished,  she  cleared  the  table  and  began  wash- 
ing the  dishes  at  the  sink.  When  he  evinced  the  intention 
of  wiping  them,  she  caught  him  by  the  lapels  of  the  coat 
and  backed  him  into  a  chair. 

"You'll  sit  right  there,  if  you  know  what's  good  for 
you.  Now  be  good  and  mind  what  I  say.  Alco,  you  will 

smoke  a  cigarette.  No;  you're  not  going  to  watch 

me.  There's  the  morning  paper  beside  you.  And  if  you 
don't  hurry  to  read  it,  I'll  be  through  these  dishes  before 
you've  started." 

As  he  smoked  and  read,  she  continually  glanced  across 
at  him  from  her  work.  One  thing  more,  she  thought — 
slippers;  and  then  the  picture  of  comfort  and  content 
would  be  complete. 

Several  minutes  later  Billy  put  the  paper  aside  with 
a  sigh. 

"It's  no  use,"  he  complained.     "I  can't  read." 

"What's  the  matter?"  she  teased.     "Eyes  weak?" 

"Nope.  They're  sore,  and  there's  only  one  thing  to  do 
'em  any  good,  an'  that's  lookin'  at  you." 

"All  right,  then,  baby  Billy;  I'll  be  through  in  a  jiffy." 

When  she  had  washed  the  dish  towel  and  scalded  out 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     127 

the  sink,  she  took  off  her  kitchen  ^apron,  came  to  him,  and 
kissed  first  one  eye  and  then  the  other. 

"How  are  they  now.     Cured?" 

''They  feel  some  better  already." 

She  repeated  the  treatment. 

"And  now?" 

"Still  better." 

"And  now?" 

"Almost  well." 

After  he  had  adjudged  them  well,  he  ouehed  and  in- 
formed her  that  there  was  still  some  hurt  in  the  right  eye. 

In  the  course  of  treating  it,  she  cried  out  as  in  pain. 
Billy  was  all  alarm. 

"What  is  it?    What  hurt  you?" 

"My  eyes.     They're  hurting  like  sixty." 

And  Billy  became  physician  for  a  while  and  she  the 
patient.  When  the  cure  was  accomplished,  she  led  him 
into  tbe  parlor,  where,  by  the  open  window,  they  suc- 
ceeded in  occupying  the  same  Morris  chair.  It  was  the 
most  expensive  comfort  in  the  house.  It  had  cost  seven 
dollars  and  a  half,  and,  though  it  was  grander  than  any- 
thing she  had  dreamed  of  possessing,  the  extravagance  of 
it  had  worried  her  in  a  half-guilty  way  all  day. 

The  salt  chill  of  the  air  that  is  the  blessing  of  all  the 
bay  cities  after  the  sun  goes  down  crept  in  about  them. 
They  heard  the  switch  engines  puffing  in  the  railroad 
yards,  and  the  rumbling  thunder  of  the  Seventh  Street 
local  slowing  down  in  its  run  from  the  Mole  to  stop  at 
West  Oakland  station.  From  the  street  came  the  noise  of 
children  playing  in  the  summer  night,  and  from  the  steps 
of  the  house  next  door  the  low  voices  of  gossiping  house- 
wives. 

"Can  you  beat  it?"  Billy  murmured.  "When  I  think 
of  that  six-dollar  furnished  room  of  mine,  it  makes  me 
sick  to  think  what  I  was  missin'  all  the  time.  But  there's 
one  satisfaction.  If  I'd  changed  it  sooner  I  wouldn't 
a-had  you.  You  see,  I  didn't  know  you  existed  only  until 
a  couple  of  weeks  ago. ' ' 


128  THE   VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

His  hand  crept  along  her  bare  forearm  and  up  and 
partly  under  the  elbow-sleeve. 

"Your  skin's  so  cool,"  he  said.  "It  ain't  cold;  it's 
cool.  It  feels  good  to  the  hand." 

"Pretty  soon  you'll  be  calling  me  your  cold-storage 
,baby,"  she  laughed. 

"And  your  voice  is  cool,"  he  went  on.  "It  gives  me 
the  feeling  just  as  your  hand  does  when  you  rest  it  on  my 
forehead.  It's  funny.  I  can't  explain  it.  But  your  voice 
just  goes  all  through  me,  cool  and  fine.  It's  like  a  wind 
of  coolness — just  right.  It's  like  the  first  of  the  sea-breeze 
settin'  in  in  the  afternoon  after  a  scorchin'  hot  morning. 
An'  sometimes,  when  you  talk  low,  it  sounds  round  and 
sweet  like  the  'cello  in  the  Macdonough  Theater  orchestra. 
And  it  never  goes  high  up,  or  sharp,  or  squeaky,  or 
scratchy,  like  some  women's  voices  when  they're  mad,  or 
fresh,  or  excited,  till  they  remind  me  of  a  bum  phonograph 
record.  Why,  your  voice,  it  just  goes  through  me  till  I  'm 
all  trembling — like  with  the  everlastin'  cool  of  it.  It's — 
it's  straight  delicious.  I  guess  angels  in  heaven,  if  they  is 
any,  must  have  voices  like  that." 

After  a  few  minutes,  in  which,  so  inexpressible  was  her 
happiness  that  she  could  only  pass  her  hand  through  his 
hair  and  cling  to  him,  he  broke  out  again. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  you  remind  me  of.     Did  you 

ever  see  a  thoroughbred  mare,  all  shinin'  in  the  sun,  with 
hair  like  satin  an'  skin  so  thin  an'  tender  that  the  least 
touch  of  the  whip  leaves  a  mark — all  fine  nerves,  an' 
delicate  an'  sensitive,  that'll  kill  the  toughest  bronco  when 
it  comes  to  endurance  an'  that  can  strain  a  tendon  in  a 
flash  or  catch  death-of-cold  without  a  blanket  for  a  night  ? 
I  wanta  tell  you  they  ain't  many  beautifuler  sights  in 
this  world.  An'  they're  that  fine-strung,  an'  sensitive, 
an'  delicate.  You  gotta  handle  'em  right-side  up,  glass, 
with  care.  Well,  that's  what  you  remind  me  of.  And 
I'm  goin'  to  make  it  my  job  to  see  you  get  handled  an' 
gentled  in  the  same  way.  You're  as  different  from  other 
women  as  that  kind  of  a  mare  is  from  scrub  work-horse 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     129 

mares.  You're  a  thoroughbred/  You're  clean-cut  an* 
spirited,  an'  your  lines  .  .  . 

"Say,  d'ye  know  you've  got  some  figure?  Well,  you 
have.  Talk  about  Annette  Kellerman.  You  can  give  her 
cards  and  spades.  She's  Australian,  an'  you're  Ameri- 
can, only  your  figure  ain't.  You're  different.  You're 
nifty — I  don't  know  how  to  explain  it.  Other  women 
ain't  built  like  you.  You  belong  in  some  other  country. 
You're  Frenchy,  that's  what.  You're  built  like  a  French 
woman,  an'  more  than  that — the  way  you  walk,  move, 
stand  up  or  sit  down,  or  don't  do  anything." 

And  he,  who  had  never  been  out  of  California,  or,  for 
that  matter,  had  never  slept  a  night  away  from  his  birth- 
town  of  Oakland,  was  right  in  his  judgment.  She  was 
a  flower  of  Anglo-Saxon  stock,  a  rarity  in  the  exceptional 
smallness  and  fineness  of  hand  and  foot  and  bone  and 
grace  of  flesh  and  carriage — some  throw-back  across  the 
face  of  time  to  the  foraying  Norman-French  that  had  in- 
termingled with  the  sturdy  Saxon  breed. 

"And  in  the  way  you  carry  your  clothes.  They  belong 
to  you.  They  seem  just  as  much  part  of  you  as  the  cool 
of  your  voice  and  skin.  They're  always  all  right  an' 
couldn't  be  better.  An'  you  know,  a  fellow  kind  of  likes 
to  be  seen  taggin'  around  with  a  woman  like  you,  that 
wears  her  clothes  like  a  dream,  an'  hear  the  other  fellows 
say:  'Who's  Bill's  new  skirt?  She's  a  peach,  ain't  she? 
Wouldn't  I  like  to  win  her,  though.'  And  all  that  sort 
of  talk." 

And  Saxon,  her  cheek  pressed  to  his,  knew  that  she 
was  paid  in  full  for  all  her  midnight  sewings  and  the 
torturing  hours  of  drowsy  stitching  when  her  head  nodded 
with  the  weariness  of  the  day 's  toil,  while  she  recreated  for 
herself  filched  ideas  from  the  dainty  garments  that  had 
steamed  under  her  passing  iron. 

"Say,  Saxon,  I  got  a  new  name  for  you.  You're  my 
Tonic  Kid.  That's  what  you  are,  the  Tonic  Kid." 

"And  you'll  never  get  tired  of  me?"  she  queried. 

"Tired?     Why  we  was  made  for  each  other." 


130  THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

"Isn't  it  wonderful,  our  meeting,  Billy?  We  might 
never  have  met.  It  was  just  by  accident  that  we  did." 

"We  was  born  lucky, "  he  proclaimed.  "That's  a 
cinch." 

"Maybe  it  was  more  than  luck,"  she  ventured. 

"Sure.  It  just  had  to  be.  It  was  fate.  Nothing  could 
a-kept  us  apart." 

They  sat  on  in  a  silence  that  was  quick  with  unuttered 
love,  till  she  felt  him  slowly  draw  her  more  closely  and 
his  lips  come  near  to  her  ear  as  they  whispered:  "What 
do  you  say  we  go  to  bed?" 

Many  evenings  they  spent  like  this,  varied  with  an  occa- 
sional dance,  with  trips  to  the  Orpheum  and  to  Bell's 
Theater,  or  to  the  moving  picture  shows,  or  to  the  Friday 
night  band  concerts  in  City  Hall  Park.  Often,  on  Sunday, 
she  prepared  a  lunch,  and  he  drove  her  out  into  the  hills 
behind  Prince  and  King,  whom  Billy's  employer  was  still 
glad  to  have  him  exercise. 

Each  morning  Saxon  was  called  by  the  alarm  clock. 
The  first  morning  he  had  insisted  upon  getting  up  with 
her  and  building  the  fire  in  the  kitchen  stove.  She  gave 
in  the  first  morning,  but  after  that  she  laid  the  fire  in 
the  evening,  so  that  all  that  was  required  was  the  touching 
of  a  match  to  it.  And  in  bed  she  compelled  him  to  remain 
for  a  last  little  doze  ere  she  called  him  for  breakfast. 
For  the  first  several  weeks  she  prepared  his  lunch  for  him. 
Then,  for  a  week,  he  came  down  to  dinner.  After  that 
he  was  compelled  to  take  his  lunch  with  him.  It  de- 
pended on  how  far  distant  the  teaming  was  done. 

"You're  not  starting  right  with  a  man,"  Mary  cau- 
tioned. "You  wait  on  him  hand  and  foot.  You'll  spoil 
him  if  you  don't  watch  out.  It's  him  that  ought  to  be 
waitin'  on  you." 

"He's  the  bread-winner,"  Saxon  replied.  "He  works 
harder  than  I,  and  I've  got  more  time  than  I  know  what 
to  do  with — time  to  burn.  Besides,  I  want  to  wait  on  him 
because  I  love  to,  and  because  .  .  .  well,  anyway,  I 
want  to." 


CHAPTER   H 

DESPITE  the  fastidiousness  of  her  housekeeping,  Saxon, 
once  she  had  systematized  it,  found  time  and  to  spare  on 
her  hands.  Especially  during  the  periods  in  which  her 
husband  carried  his  lunch  and  there  was  no  midday  meal 
to  prepare,  she  had  a  number  of  hours  each  day  to  her- 
self. Trained  for  years  to  the  routine  of  factory  and 
laundry  work,  she  could  not  abide  this  unaccustomed  idle- 
ness. She  could  not  bear  to  sit  and  do  nothing,  whil& 
she  could  not  pay  calls  on  her  girlhood  friends,  for  they 
still  worked  in  factory  and  laundry.  Nor  was  she  ac- 
quainted with  the  wives  of  the  neighborhood,  save  for 
one  strange  old  woman  who  lived  in  the  house  next  door 
and  with  whom  Saxon  had  exchanged  snatches  of  con- 
versation over  the  back  yard  division  fence. 

One  time-consuming  diversion  of  which  Saxon  took  ad- 
vantage was  free  and  unlimited  baths.  In  the  orphan 
asylum  and  in  Sarah 's  house  she  had  been  used  to  but  one 
bath  a  week.  As  she  grew  to  womanhood  she  had  at- 
tempted more  frequent  baths.  But  the  effort  proved  dis- 
astrous, arousing,  first,  Sarah's  derision,  and  next,  her 
wrath.  Sarah  had  crystallized  in  the  era  of  the  weekly 
Saturday  night  bath,  and  any  increase  in  this  cleansing 
function  was  regarded  by  her  as  putting  on  airs  and  as 
an  insinuation  against  her  own  cleanliness.  Also,  it  was 
an  extravagant  misuse  of  fuel,  and  occasioned  extra  towels 
in  the  family  wash.  But  now,  in  Billy's  house,  with  her 
own  stove,  her  own  tub  and  towels  and  soap,  and  no  one 
to  say  her  nay,  Saxon  was  guilty  of  a  daily  orgy.  True, 
it  was  only  a  common  washtub  that  she  placed  on  the 
kitchen  floor  and  filled  by  hand ;  but  -it  was  a  luxury  that 
had  tajsen  her  twenty-four  years  to  achieve.  It  was  from 
131 


132  THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

the  strange  woman  next  door  that  Saxon  received  a  hint, 
dropped  in  casual  conversation,  of  what  proved  the 
culminating  joy  of  bathing.  A  simple  thing — a  few  drops 
of  druggist 's  ammonia  in  the  water ;  but  Saxon  had  never 
heard  of  it  before. 

She  was  destined  to  learn  much  from  the  strange  woman. 
The  acquaintance  had  begun  one  day  when  Saxon,  in  the 
back  yard,  was  hanging  out  a  couple  of  corset  covers 
and  several  pieces  of  her  finest  undergarments.  The  wom- 
an, leaning  on  the  rail  of  her  back  porch,  had  caught  her 
eye,  and  nodded,  as  it  seemed  to  Saxon,  half  to  her  and 
half  to  the  underlinen  on  the  line. 

"You're  newly  married,  aren't  you?"  the  woman  asked. 
"I'm  Mrs.  Higgins.  I  prefer  my  first  name,  which  ia 
Mercedes. ' ' 

"And  I'm  Mrs.  Eoberts,"  Saxon  replied,  thrilling  to 
the  newness  of  the  designation  on  her  tongue.  "My  first 
name  is  Saxon." 

"Strange  name  for  a  Yankee  woman,"  the  other  com- 
mented. 

"Oh,  but  I'm  not  Yankee,"  Saxon  exclaimed.  "I'm 
Californian. ' ' 

"La  la,"  laughed  Mercedes  Higgins.     "I  forgot  I  was 
in   America.      In   other  lands   all   Americans   are    called 
Yankees.     It  is  true  that  you  are  newly  married?" 
Saxon  nodded  with  a  happy  sigh.    Mercedes  sighed,  too. 
"Oh,  you  happy,  soft,  beautiful  young  thing.     I  could 
envy  you  to  hatred — you  with  all  the  man-world  ripe  to 
be  twisted   about   your   pretty   little   fingers.     And   you 
don't  realize  your  fortune.     No  one  does  until  it's  too 
late." 

Saxon  was  puzzled  and  disturbed,  though  she  answered 
readily : 

Oh,  but  I  do  know  how  lucky  I  am.    I  have  the  finest 
man  in  the  world." 

Mercedes  Higgins  sighed  again  and  changed  the  sub- 
ject. She  nodded  her  head  at  the  garments. 

"I  see  you  like  pretty  things.    It  is  good  judgment  for 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      133 

a  young  woman.  They're  the  bait  for  men — half  the 
weapons  in  the  battle.  They  win  men,  and  they  hold 

men "      She    broke    off    to    demand    almost    fiercely: 

"And  you,  you  would  keep  your  husband? — always,  al- 
ways— if  you  can?" 

"I  intend  to.  I  will  make  him  love  me  always  and 
always. ' ' 

Saxon  ceased,  troubled  and  surprised  that  she  should 
be  so  intimate  with  a  stranger. 

'  'Tis  a  queer  thing,  this  love  of  men,"  Mercedes  said. 
"And  a  failing  of  all  women  is  it  to  believe  they  know 
men  like  books.  And  with  breaking  hearts,  die  they  do, 
most  women,  out  of  their  ignorance  of  men  and  still  fool- 
ishly believing  they  know  all  about  them.  Oh,  la  la,  the 
little  fools.  And  so  you  say,  little  new-married  woman, 
that  you  will  make  your  man  love  you  always  and  always  ? 
And  so  they  all  say  it,  knowing  men  and  the  queerness 
of  men's  love  the  way  they  think  they  do.  Easier  it  is 
to  win  the  capital  prize  in  the  Little  Louisiana,  but  the 
little  new-married  women  never  know  it  until  too  late. 
But  you — you  have  begun  well.  Stay  by  your  pretties 
and  your  looks.  'Twas  so  you  won  your  man,  'tis  so 
you'll  hold  him.  But  that  is  not  all.  Some  time  I  will 
talk  with  you  and  tell  what  few  women  trouble  to  know, 

what  few  women  ever  come  to  know.    Saxon! — 'tis  a 

strong,  handsome  name  for  a  woman.  But  you  don't  look 
it.  Oh,  I've  watched  you.  French  you  are,  with  a  Frenehi- 
ness  beyond  dispute.  Tell  Mr.  Roberts  I  congratulate  him 
on  his  good  taste." 

She  paused,  her  hand  on  the  knob  of  her  kitchen  door. 

"And  come  and  see  me  some  time.  You  will  never  be 
sorry.  I  can  teach  you  much.  Come  in  the  afternoon. 
My  man  is  night  watchman  in  the  yards  and  sleeps  of 
mornings.  He's  sleeping  now." 

Saxon  went  into  the  house  puzzling  and  pondering. 
Anything  but  ordinary  was  this  lean,  dark-skinned  woman, 
with  the  face  withered  as  if  scorched  in  great  heats, 
and  the  eyes,  large  and  black,  that  flashed  and  flamed  with 


134  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

advertisement  of  an  unquenched  inner  conflagration. 
Old  she  was — Saxon  caught  herself  debating  anywhere 
between  fifty  and  seventy;  and  her  hair,  which  had  once 
been  blackest  black,  was  streaked  plentifully  with  gray. 
Especially  noteworthy  to  Saxon  was  her  speech.  Good 
English  it  was,  better  than  that  to  which  Saxon  was  ac- 
customed. Yet  the  woman  was  not  American.  On  the 
other  hand,  she  had  no  perceptible  accent.  Rather  were 
her  words  touched  by  a  foreignness  so  elusive  that  Saxon 
could  not  analyze  nor  place  it. 

"Uh,  huh,"  Billy  said,  when  she  had  told  him  that  even- 
ing of  the  day's  event.  "So  she's  Mrs.  Higgins?  He's 
a  watchman.  He's  got  only  one  arm.  Old  Higgins  an' 
her — a  funny  bunch,  the  two  of  them.  The  people's  scared 
of  her — some  of  'em.  The  Dagoes  an'  some  of  the  old 
Irish  dames  thinks  she's  a  witch.  Won't  have  a  thing  to 
do  with  her.  Bert  was  tellin'  me  about  it.  Why,  Saxon, 
d'ye  know,  some  of  'em  believe  if  she  was  to  get  mad  at 
'em,  or  didn't  like  their  mugs,  or  anything,  that  all  she's 
got  to  do  is  look  at  'em  an'  they'll  curl  up  their  toes  an' 
croak.  One  of  the  fellows  that  works  at  the  stable — you  've 
seen  'm — Henderson — he  lives  around  the  corner  on 
Fifth — he  says  she's  bughouse." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  Saxon  defended  her  new  acquain- 
tance. "She  may  be  crazy,  but  she  says  the  same  thing 
you're  always  saying.  She  says  my  form  is  not  American 
but  French." 

"Then  I  take  my  hat  off  to  her,"  Billy  responded. 
"No  wheels  in  her  head  if  she  says  that.  Take  it  from 
me,  she's  a  wise  gazabo." 

"And  she  speaks  good  English,  Billy,  like  a  school 
teacher,  like  what  I  guess  my  mother  used  to  speak.  She 's 
educated." 

"She  ain't  no  fool,  or  she  wouldn't  a-sized  you  up  the 
way  she  did." 

"She  told  me  to  congratulate  you  on  your  good  taste 
in  marrying  me,"  Saxon  laughed. 

"She  did,  eh?     Then  give  her  my  love.     Me  for  her, 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      135 

because  she  knows  a  good  thing  when  she  sees  it,  an'  she 
ought  to  be  congratulating  you  on  your  good  taste  in  me." 

It  was  on  another  day  that  Mercedes  Higgins  nodded, 
half  to  Saxon,  and  half  to  the  dainty  women's  things 
Saxon  was  hanging  on  the  line. 

"I've  been  worrying  over  your  washing,  little  new- 
wife,"  was  her  greeting. 

"Oh,  but  I've  worked  in  the  laundry  for  years,"  Saxon 
said  quickly. 

Mercedes  sneered  scornfully. 

"Steam  laundry.  That's  business,  and  it's  stupid.  Only 
common  things  should  go  to  a  steam  laundry.  That  is 
their  punishment  for  being  common.  But  the  pretties! 
the  dainties!  the  flimsies! — la  la,  my  dear,  their  wash- 
ing is  an  art.  It  requires  wisdom,  genius,  and  discretion 
fine  as  the  clothes  are  fine.  I  will  give  you  a  recipe  for 
home-made  soap.  It  will  not  harden  the  texture.  It  will 
give  whiteness,  and  softness,  and  life.  You  can  wear  them 
long,  and  fine  white  clothes  are  to  be  loved  a  long  time. 
Oh,  fine  washing  is  a  refinement,  an  art.  It  is  to  be  done 
as  an  artist  paints  a  picture,  or  Writes  a  poem,  with  love, 
holily,  a  true  sacrament  of  beauty. 

"I  shall  teach  you  better  ways,  my  dear,  better  ways 
than  you  Yankees  know.  I  shall  teach  you  new  pret- 
ties." She  nodded  her  head  to  Saxon's  underlinen  on  the 
line.  "I  see  you  make  little  laces.  I  know  all  laces — the 
Belgian,  the  Maltese,  the  Mechlin — oh,  the  many,  many 
loves  of  laces !  I  shall  teach  you  some  of  the  simpler  ones 
so  that  you  can  make  them  for  yourself,  for  your  brave 
man  you  are  to  make  love  you  always  and  always." 

On  her  first  visit  to  Mercedes  Higgins,  Saxon  received 
the  recipe  for  home-made  soap  and  her  head  was  filled 
with  a  minutiae  of  instruction  in  the  art  of  fine  washing. 
Further,  she  was  fascinated  and  excited  by  all  the  new- 
ness and  strangeness  of  the  withered  old  woman  who  blew 
upon  her  the  breath  of  wider  lands  and  seas  beyond  the 
horizon. 

"You  are  Spanish?"  Saxon  ventured. 


136  THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

MNo,  and  yes,  and  neither,  and  more.  My  father  was 
Irish,  my  mother  Peruvian-Spanish.  'Tis  after  her  I  took, 
in  color  and  looks.  In  other  ways  after  my  father,  the 
blue-eyed  Celt  with  the  fairy  song  on  his  tongue  and  the 
restless  feet  that  stole  the  rest  of  him  away  to  far-wander- 
ing. And  the  feet  of  him  that  he  lent  me  have  led  me 
away  on  as  wide  far  roads  as  ever  his  led  him." 

Saxon  remembered  her  school  geography,  and  with  her 
mind's  eye  she  saw  a  certain  outline  map  of  a  continent 
with  jiggly  wavering  parallel  lines  that  denoted  coast. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  "then  you  are  South  American." 

Mercedes  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"I  had  to  be  born  somewhere.  It  was  a  great  ranch,  my 
mother's.  You  could  put  all  Oakland  in  one  of  its  small- 
est pastures." 

Mercedes  Higgins  sighed  cheerfully  and  for  the  time 
was  lost  in  retrospection.  Saxon  was  curious  to  hear  more 
about  this  woman  who  must  have  lived  much  as  the 
Spanish- Calif ornians  had  lived  in  the  old  days. 

"You  received  a  good  education,"  she  said  tentatively. 
"Your  English  is  perfect." 

"Ah,  the  English  came  afterward,  and  not  in  school. 
But,  as  it  goes,  yes,  a  good  education  in  all  things  but 
the  most  important — men.  That,  too,  came  afterward. 
And  little  my  mother  dreamed — she  was  a  grand  lady, 
what  you  call  a  cattle-queen — little  she  dreamed  my  fine 
education  was  to  fit  me  in  the  end  for  a  night  watchman's 
wife."  She  laughed  genuinely  at  the  grotesqueness  of 
the  idea.  "Night  watchman,  laborers,  why,  we  had  hun- 
dreds, yes,  thousands  that  toiled  for  us.  The  peons — they 
are  like  what  you  call  slaves,  almost,  and  the  cowboys, 
who  could  ride  two  hundred  miles  between  side  and  side 
of  the  ranch.  And  in  the  big  house  servants  beyond 
remembering  or  counting.  La  la,  in  my  mother's  house 
were  many  servants. ' ' 

Mercedes  Higgins  was  voluble  as  a  Greek,  and  wan- 
dered on  in  reminiscence. 

"But  our  servants  were  lazy  and  dirty.     The  Chinese 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      137 

are  the  servants  par  excellence.  So  are  the  Japanese,  when 
you  find  a  good  one,  but  not  so  good  as  the  Chinese.  The 
Japanese  maidservants  are  pretty  and  merry,  but  you 
never  know  the  moment  they'll  leave  you.  The  Hindoos 
are  not  strong,  but  very  obedient.  They  look  upon  sahibs 
and  memsahibs  as  gods !  I  was  a  meinsahib — which  means 
woman.  I  once  had  a  Russian  cook  who  always  spat  in 
the  soup  for  luck.  It  was  very  funny.  But  we  put  up 
with  it.  It  was  the  custom." 

"How  you  must  have  traveled  to  have  such  strange  ser- 
vants!" Saxon  encouraged. 

The  old  woman  laughed  corroboration. 

"And  the  strangest  of  all,  down  in  the  South  Seas, 
black  slaves,  little  kinky-haired  cannibals  with  bones 
through  their  noses.  When  they  did  not  mind,  or  when 
they  stole,  they  were  tied  up  to  a  cocoanut  palm  behind 
the  compound  and  lashed  with  whips  of  rhinoceros  hide. 
They  were  from  an  island  of  cannibals  and  head-hunters, 
and  they  never  cried  out.  It  was  their  pride.  There  was 
little  Vibi,  only  twelve  years  old — he  waited  on  me — and 
when  his  back  was  cut  in  shreds  and  I  wept  over  him,  he 
would  only  laugh  and  say,  'Short  time  little  bit  I  take  'm 

head  belong  big  fella  white  marster. '  That  was  Bruce 

Anstey,  the  Englishman  who  whipped  him.  But  little 
Vibi  never  got  the  head.  He  ran  away  and  the  bushmen 
cut  off  his  own  head  and  ate  every  bit  of  him." 

Saxon  chilled,  and  her  face  was  grave;  but  Mercedes 
Higgins  rattled  on. 

"Ah,  those  were  wild,  gay,  savage  days.  Would  you 
believe  it,  my  dear,  in  three  years  those  Englishmen  of 
the  plantation  drank  up  oceans  of  champagne  and  Scotch 
whisky  and  dropped  thirty  thousand  pounds  on  the  ad- 
venture. Not  dollars — pounds,  which  means  one  hundred 
and  fifty  thousand  dollars.  They  were  princes  while  it 
lasted.  It  was  splendid,  glorious.  It  was  mad,  mad.  I 
sold  half  my  beautiful  jewels  in  New  Zealand  before  I  got 
started  again.  Bruce  Anstey  blew  out  his  brains  at  the 
end.  Roger  went  mate  on  a  trader  with  a  black  crew, 


138  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

for  eight  pounds  a  month.  And  Jack  Gilbraith — he  was 
the  rarest  of  them  all.  His  people  were  wealthy  and 
titled,  and  he  went  home  to  England  and  sold  cat's  meat 
all  around  their  big  house  till  they  gave  him  more  money 
to  start  a  rubber  plantation  in  the  East  Indies  somewhere, 
on  Sumatra,  I  think — or  was  it  New  Guinea?" 

And  Saxon,  back  in  her  own  kitchen  and  preparing 
supper  for  Billy,  wondered  what  lusts  and  rapacities  had 
led  the  old,  burnt-faced  woman  from  the  big  Peruvian 
ranch,  through  all  the  world,  to  West  Oakland  and  Barry 
Higgins.  Old  Barry  was  not  the  sort  who  would  fling 
away  his  share  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars, 
much  less  ever  attain  to  such  opulence.  Besides,  she 
had  mentioned  the  names  of  other  men,  but  not  his. 

Much  more  Mercedes  had  talked,  in  snatches  and  frag- 
ments. There  seemed  no  great  country  nor  city  of  the  old 
world  or  the  new  in  which  she  had  not  been.  She  had 
even  been  in  Klondike,  ten  years  before,  in  a  half-dozen 
flashing  sentences  picturing  the  fur-clad,  be-moccasined 
miners  sowing  the  barroom  floors  with  thousands  of  dol- 
lars' worth  of  gold  dust.  Always,  so  it  seemed  to  Saxon, 
Mrs.  Higgins  had  been  with  men  to  whom  money  was 
as  watee. 


CHAPTER  III 

SAXON,  brooding  over  her  problem  of  retaining  Billy's 
love,  of  never  staling  the  freshness  of  their  feeling  for 
each  other  and  of  never  descending  from  the  heights  which 
at  present  they  were  treading,  felt  herself  impelled  toward 
Mrs.  Higgins.  She  knew;  surely  she  must  know.  Had 
she  not  hinted  knowledge  beyond  ordinary  women's 
knowledge  ? 

Several  weeks  went  by,  during  which  Saxon  was  often 
with  her.  But  Mrs.  Higgins  talked  of  all  other  matters, 
taught  Saxon  the  making  of  certain  simple  laces,  and  in- 
structed her  in  the  arts  of  washing  and  of  marketing. 
And  then,  one  afternoon,  Saxon  found  Mrs.  Higgins  more 
voluble  than  usual,  with  words,  clean-uttered,  that  rippled 
and  tripped  in  their  haste  to  escape.  Her  eyes  were 
flaming.  So  flamed  her  face.  Her  words  were  flames. 
There  was  a  smell  of  liquor  in  the  air  and  Saxon  knew 
that  the  old  woman  had  been  drinking.  Nervous  and 
frightened,  at  the  same  time  fascinated,  Saxon  hemstitched 
a  linen  handkerchief  intended  for  Billy  and  listened  to 
Mercedes'  wild  flow  of  speech. 

"Listen,  my  dear.  I  shall  tell  you  about  the  world  of 
men.  Do  not  be  stupid  like  all  your  people,  who  think 
me  foolish  and  a  witch  with  the  evil  eye.  Ha !  ha  t  When 
I  think  of  silly  Maggie  Donahue  pulling  the  shawl  across 
her  baby 's  face  when  we  pass  each  other  on  the  sidewalk ! 
A  witch  I  have  been,  'tis  true,  but  my  witchery  was  with 
men.  Oh,  I  am  wise,  very  wise,  my  dear.  I  shall  tell 
you  of  women's  ways  with  men,  and  of  men's  ways  with 
women,  the  best  of  them  and  the  worst  of  them.  Of  the 
brute  that  is  in  all  men,  of  the  queerness  of  them  that 
breaks  the  hearts  of  stupid  women  who  do  not  understand, 
139 


140  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

And  all  women  are  stupid.    I  am  not  stupid.    La  la,  listen. 

"I  am  an  old  woman.  And  like  a  woman,  I'll  not  tell 
you  how  old  I  am.  Yet  can  I  hold  men.  Yet  would  I 
hold  men,  toothless  and  a  hundred,  my  nose  touching  my 
chin.  Not  the  young  men.  They  were  mine  in  my  young 
days.  But  the  old  men,  as  befits  my  years.  And  well 
for  me  the  power  is  mine.  In  all  this  world  I  am  without 
kin  or  cash.  Only  have  I  wisdom  and  memories — mem- 
ories that  are  ashes,  but  royal  ashes,  jeweled  ashes.  Old 
women,  such  as  I,  starve  and  shiver,  or  accept  the  pau- 
per's dole  and  the  pauper's  shroud.  Not  I.  I  hold  my 
man.  True,  'tis  only  Barry  Higgins — old  Barry,  heavy, 
an  ox,  but  a  male  man,  my  dear,  and  queer  as  all  men  are 
queer.  'Tis  true,  he  has  one  arm."  She  shrugged  her 
shoulders.  "A  compensation.  He  cannot  beat  me,  and 
old  bones  are  tender  when  the  round  flesh  thins  to  strings. 

"But  when  I  think  of  my  wild  young  lovers,  princes, 
mad  with  the  madness  of  youth!  I  have  lived.  It  is 
enough.  I  regret  nothing.  And  with  old  Barry  I  have  my 
surety  of  a  bite  to  eat  and  a  place  by  the  fire.  And  why? 
Because  I  know  men,  and  shall  never  lose  my  cunning 
to  hold  them.  'Tis  bitter  sweet,  the  knowledge  of  them, 
more  sweet  than  bitter — men  and  men  and  men!  Not 
stupid  dolts,  nor  fat  bourgeois  swine  of  business  men,  but 
men  of  temperament,  of  flame  and  fire;  madmen,  maybe, 
but  a  lawless,  royal  race  of  madmen. 

"Little  wife- woman,  you  must  learn.  Variety!  There 
lies  the  magic.  'Tis  the  golden  key.  'Tis  the  toy  that 
amuses.  Without  it  in  the  wife,  the  man  is  a  Turk ;  with 
it,  he  is  her  slave,  and  faithful.  A  wife  must  be  many 
wives.  If  you  would  have  your  husband 's  love  you  must  be 
all  women  to  him.  You  must  be  ever  new,  with  the  dew 
of  newness  ever  sparkling,  a  flower  that  never  blooms  to 
the  fulness  that  fades.  You  must  be  a  garden  of  flowers, 
ever  new,  ever  fresh,  ever  different.  And  in  your  garden 
the  man  must  never  pluck  the  last  of  your  posies. 

"Listen,  little  wife- woman.  In  the  garden  of  love  is  a 
snake.  It  is  the  commonplace.  Stamp  on  its  head,  or 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      141 

it  will  destroy  the  garden.  Remember  the  name.  Common- 
place. Never  be  too  intimate.  Men  only  seem  gross. 

Women  are  more  gross  than  men.  No,  do  not  argue, 

little  new-wife.  You  are  an  infant  woman.  Women  are 
less  delicate  than  men.  Do  I  not  know?  Of  their  own 
husbands  they  will  relate  the  most  intimate  love-secrets 
to  other  women.  Men  never  do  this  of  their  wives.  Ex- 
plain it.  There  is  only  one  way.  In  all  things  of  love 
women  are  less  delicate.  It  is  their  mistake.  It  is  the 
father  and  the  mother  of  the  commonplace,  and  it  is  the 
commonplace,  like  a  loathsome  slug,  that  beslimes  and 
destroys  love. 

"Be  delicate,  little  wife- woman.  Never  be  without  your 
veil,  without  many  veils.  Veil  yourself  in  a  thousand  veils, 
all  shimmering  and  glittering  with  costly  textures  and 
precious  jewels.  Never  let  the  last  veil  be  drawn.  Against 
the  morrow  array  yourself  with  more  veils,  ever  more 
veils,  veils  without  end.  Yet  the  many  veils  must  not 
seem  many.  Each  veil  must  seem  the  only  one  between 
you  and  your  hungry  lover  who  will  have  nothing  less 
than  all  of  you.  Each  time  he  must  seem  to  get  all,  to 
tear  aside  the  last  veil  that  hides  you.  He  must  think  so. 
It  must  not  be  so.  Then  there  will  be  no  satiety,  for  on 
the  morrow  he  will  find  another  last  veil  that  has  escaped 
him. 

"Remember,  each  veil  must  seem  the  last  and  only  one. 
Always  you  must  seem  to  abandon  all  to  his  arms ;  always 
you  must  reserve  more  that  on  the  morrow  and  on  all  the 
morrows  you  may  abandon.  Of  such  is  variety,  surprise, 
so  that  your  man's  pursuit  will  be  everlasting,  so  that 
his  eyes  will  look  to  you  for  newness,  and  not  to  other 
women.  It  was  the  freshness  and  the  newness  of  your 
beauty  and  you,  the  mystery  of  you,  that  won  your  man. 
When  a  man  has  plucked  and  smelled  all  the  sweetness  of 
a  flower,  he  looks  for  other  flowers.  It  is  his  queerness. 
You  must  ever  remain  a  flower  almost  plucked  yet  never 
plucked,  stored  with  vats  of  sweet  unbroached  though  ever 
broached. 


142  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

"Stupid  women,  and  all  are  stupid,  think  the  first  win- 
ning of  the  man  the  final  victory.  Then  they  settle  down 
and  grow  fat,  and  stale,  and  dead,  and  heartbroken.  Alas, 
they  are  so  stupid.  But  you,  little  infant-woman  with  your 
first  victory,  you  must  make  your  love-life  an  unending 
chain  of  victories.  Each  day  you  must  win  your  man 
again.  And  when  you  have  won  the  last  victory,  when 
you  can  find  no  more  to  win,  then  ends  love.  Finis  13 
written,  and  your  man  wanders  in  strange  gardens.  Re- 
member, love  must  be  kept  insatiable.  It  must  have  an 
appetite  knife-edged  and  never  satisfied.  You  must  feed 
your  lover  well,  ah,  very  well,  most  well;  give,  give,  yet 
send  him  away  hungry  to  come  back  to  you  for  more." 

Mrs.  Higgins  stood  up  suddenly  and  crossed  out  of  the 
room.  Saxon  had  not  failed  to  note  the  litheness  and 
grace  in  that  lean  and  withered  body.  She  watched  for 
Mrs.  Higgins'  return,  and  knew  that  the  litheness  and 
grace  had  not  been  imagined. 

"Scarcely  have  I  told  you  the  first  letter  in  love's  al- 
phabet," said  Mercedes  Higgins,  as  she  reseated  herself. 

In  her  hands  was  a  tiny  instrument,  beautifully  grained 
and  richly  brown,  which  resembled  a  guitar  save  that  it 
bore  four  strings.  She  swept  them  back  and  forth  with 
rhythmic  forefinger  and  lifted  a  voice,  thin  and  mellow,  in 
a  fashion  of  melody  that  was  strange,  and  in  a  foreign 
tongue,  warm-voweled,  all-voweled,  and  love-exciting. 
Softly  throbbing,  voice  and  strings  arose  on  sensuous 
crests  of  song,  died  away  to  whisperings  and  caresses, 
drifted  through  love-dusks  and  twilights,  or  swelled  again 
to  love-cries  barbarically  imperious  in  which  were  woven 
plaintive  calls  and  madnesses  of  invitation  and  promise. 
It  went  through  Saxon  until  she  was  as  this  instrument, 
swept  with  passional  strains.  It  seemed  to  her  a  dream, 
and  almost  was  she  dizzy,  when  Mercedes  Higgins 
ceased. 

' '  If  your  man  had  clasped  the  last  of  you,  and  if  all  of 
you  were  known  to  him  as  an  old  story,  yet,  did  you  sing 
that  one  song,  as  I  have  sung  it,  yet  would  his  arms  again 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     143 

go  out  to  you  and  his  eyes  grow  warm  with  the  old  mad 
lights.  Do  you  see?  Do  you  understand,  little  wife- 
woman  ? ' ' 

Saxon  could  only  nod,  her  lips  too  dry  for  speech. 

"The  golden  koa,  the  king  of  woods,"  Mercedes  was 
crooning  over  the  instrument.  ' '  The  ukulele — that  is  what 
the  Hawaiians  call  it,  which  means,  my  dear,  the  jumping 
flea.  They  are  golden-fleshed,  the  Hawaiians,  a  race  of 
lovers,  all  in  the  warm  cool  of  the  tropic  night  where  the 
trade  winds  blow." 

Again  she  struck  the  strings.  She  sang  in  another 
language,  which  Saxon  deemed  must  be  French.  It  was 
a  gayly-devilish  lilt,  tripping  and  tickling.  Her  large 
eyes  at  times  grew  larger  and  wilder,  and  again  narrowed 
in  enticement  and  wickedness.  When  she  ended,  she  looked 
to  Saxon  for  a  verdict. 

"I  don't  like  that  one  so  well,"  Saxon  said. 

Mercedes  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"They  all  have  their  worth,  little  infant- woman  with 
so  much  to  learn.  There  are  times  when  men  may  be 
won  with  wine.  There  are  times  when  men  may  be  won. 
with  the  wine  of  song,  so  queer  they  are.  La  la,  so  many 
ways,  so  many  ways.  There  are  your  pretties,  my  dear, 
your  dainties.  They  are  magic  nets.  No  fisherman  upon 
the  sea  ever  tangled  fish  more  successfully  than  we  women 
with  our  flimsies.  You  are  on  the  right  path.  I  have 
seen  men  enmeshed  by  a  corset  cover  no  prettier,  no  dain- 
,tier,  than  those  of  yours  I  have  seen  on  the  line. 

"I  have  called  the  washing  of  fine  linen  an  art.  But 
it  is  not  for  itself  alone.  The  greatest  of  the  arts  is  the 
conquering  of  men.  Love  is  the  sum  of  all  the  arts,  as 
it  is  the  reason  for  their  existence.  Listen.  In  all  times 
and  ages  have  been  women,  great  wise  women.  They  did 
not  need  to  be  beautiful.  .Greater  than  all  woman's  beauty 
was  their  wisdom.  Princes  and  potentates  bowed  down 
before  them.  Nations  battled  over  them.  Empires  crashed 
because  of  them.  Religions  were  founded  on  them. 
Aphrodite,  Astarte,  the  worships  of  the  night — listen,  in- 


144     THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON 

fant-woman,  of  the  great  women  who  conquered  worlds 
of  men." 

And  thereafter  Saxon  listened,  in  a  maze,  to  what  almost 
seemed  a  wild  farrago,  save  that  the  strange  meaningless 
phrases  were  fraught  with  dim,  mysterious  significance. 
She  caught  glimmerings  of  profounds  inexpressible  and 
unthinkable  that  hinted  connotations  lawless  and  ter-< 
rible.  The  woman's  speech  was  a  lava  rush,  scorching1 
and  searing;  and  Saxon's  cheeks,  and  forehead,  and  neck 
burned  with  a  blush  that  continuously  increased.  She 
trembled  with  fear,  suffered  qualms  of  nausea,  thought 
sometimes  that  she  would  faint,  so  madly  reeled  her 
brain;  yet  she  could  not  tear  herself  away,  and  sat  on 
and  on,  her  sewing  forgotten  on  her  lap,  staring  with 
inward  sight  upon  a  nightmare  vision  beyond  all  imagin- 
ing. At  last,  when  it  seemed  she  could  endure  no  more, 
and  while  she  was  wetting  her  dry  lips  to  cry  out  in 
protest,  Mercedes  ceased. 

"And  here  endeth  the  first  lesson,"  she  said  quite 
calmly,  then  laughed  with  a  laughter  that  was  tantalizing 
and  tormenting.  "What  is  the  matter?  You  are  not 
shocked  ? ' ' 

"I  am  frightened,"  Saxon  quavered  huskily,  with  a 
half -sob  of  nervousness.  "You  frighten  me.  I  am  very 
foolish,  and  I  know  so  little,  that  I  had  never  dreamed 

.     .     that." 

Mercedes  nodded  her  head  comprehendingly. 

"It  is  indeed  to  be  frightened  at,"  she  said.  "It  is  sol- 
emn ;  it  is  terrible ;  it  is  magnificent ! ' ' 


CHAPTER   IV 

,  SAXON  had  been  clear-eyed  all  her  days,  though  her  field 
of  vision  had  been  restricted.  Clear-eyed,  from  her  child 
hood  days  with  the  saloonkeeper  Cady  and  Cady's  good- 
natured  but  unmoral  spouse,  she  had  observed,  and,  later, 
generalized  much  upon  sex.  She  knew  the  post-nuptial 
problem  of  retaining  a  husband's  love,  as  few  wives  of 
any  class  knew  it,  just  as  she  knew  the  pre- nuptial  problem 
of  selecting  a  husband,  as  few  girls  of  the  working  class 
knew  it. 

She  had  of  herself  developed  an  eminently  rational 
philosophy  of  love.  Instinctively,  and  consciously,  too, 
she  had  made  toward  delicacy,  and  shunned  the  perils 
of  the  habitual  and  commonplace.  Thoroughly  aware  she 
was  that  as  she  cheapened  herself  so  did  she  cheapen  love. 
Never,  in  the  weeks  of  their  married  life,  had  Billy  found 
her  dowdy,  or  harshly  irritable,  or  lethargic.  And  she 
had  deliberately  permeated  her  house  with  her  personal 
atmosphere  of  coolness,  and  freshness,  and  equableness. 
Nor  had  she  been  ignorant  of  such  assets  as  surprise  and 
charm.  Her  imagination  had  not  been  asleep,  and  she 
had  been  born  with  wisdom.  In  Billy  she  had  won  a 
prize,  and  she  knew  it.  She  appreciated  his  lover's  ardor 
and  was  proud.  His  open-handed  liberality,  his  desire 
for  everything  of  the  best,  his  own  personal  cleanliness 
and  care  of  himself  she  recognized  as  far  beyond  the  aver- 
age. He  was  never  coarse.  He  met  delicacy  with  delicacy, 
though  it  was  obvious  to  her  that  the  initiative  in  all  such 
matters  lay  with  her  and  must  lie  with  her  always.  He 
was  largely  unconscious  of  what  he  did  and  why.  But 
she  knew  in  all  full  clarity  of  judgment.  And  he  was 
such  a  prize  among  men. 

145 


146  THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

Despite  her  clear  sight  of  her  problem  of  keeping  Billy 
a  lover,  and  despite  the  considerable  knowledge  and  ex- 
perience arrayed  before  her  mental  vision,  Mercedes  Hig- 
gins  had  spread  before  her  a  vastly  wider  panorama.  The 
old  woman  had  verified  her  own  conclusions,  given  her  new 
ideas,  clinched  old  ones,  and  even  savagely  emphasized  the 
tragic  importance  of  the  whole  problem.  Much  Saxon 
remembered  of  that  mad  preachment,  much  she  guessed 
and  felt,  and  much  had  been  beyond  her  experience  and 
understanding.  But  the  metaphors  of  the  veils  and  th« 
flowers,  and  the  rules  of  giving  to  abandonment  with  al- 
ways more  to  abandon,  she  grasped  thoroughly,  and  she 
was  enabled  to  formulate  a  bigger  and  stronger  love-phi- 
losophy. In  the  light  of  the  revelation  she  re-examined 
the  married  lives  of  all  she  had  ever  known,  and,  with 
sharp  defmiteness  as  never  before,  she  saw  where  and 
why  so  many  of  them  had  failed. 

With  renewed  ardor  Saxon  devoted  herself  to  her  house- 
hold, to  her  pretties,  and  to  her  charms.  She  marketed 
with  a  keener  desire  for  the  best,  though  never  ignoring 
the  need  for  economy.  From  the  women's  pages  of  the 
Sunday  supplements,  and  from  the  women's  magazines 
in  the  free  reading  room  two  blocks  away,  she  gleaned 
many  ideas  for  the  preservation  of  her  looks.  In  a  sys- 
tematic way  she  exercised  the  various  parts  of  her  body, 
and  a  certain  period  of  time  each  day  she  employed  in  fa- 
cial exercises  and  massage  for  the  purpose  of  retaining 
the  roundness  and  freshness,  and  firmness  and  color. 
Billy  did  not  know.  These  intimacies  of  the  toilette  were 
not  for  him.  The  results,  only,  were  his.  She  drew  books 
from  the  Carnegie  Library  and  studied  physiology  and 
hygiene,  and  learned  a  myriad  of  things  about  herself 
and  the  ways  of  woman's  health  that  she  had  never  been 
taught  by  Sarah,  the  women  of  the  orphan  asylum,  nor 
by  Mrs.  Cady. 

After  long  debate  she  subscribed  to  a  woman 's  magazine, 
the  patterns  and  lessons  of  which  she  decided  were  the 
best  suited  to  her  taste  and  purse.  The  other  women's 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     147 

magazines  she  had  access  to  in  the  free  reading  room, 
and  more  than  one  pattern  of  lace  and  embroidery  she 
copied  by  means  of  tracing  paper.  Before  the  lingerie 
windows  of  the  uptown  shops  she  often  stood  and  studied; 
nor  was  she  above  taking  advantage,  when  small  pur- 
chases were  made,  of  looking  over  the  goods  at  the  hand- 
embroidered  underwear  counters.  Once,  she  even 
'considered  taking  up  with  hand-painted  china,  but  gave 
over  the  idea  when  she  learned  its  expensiveness. 

She  slowly  replaced  all  her  simple  maiden  underlinen 
with  garments  which,  while  still  simple,  were  wrought 
with  beautiful  French  embroidery,  tucks,  and  drawn- 
work.  She  crocheted  fine  edgings  on  the  inexpensive 
knitted  underwear  she  wore  in  winter.  She  made  little 
corset  covers  and  chemises  of  fine  but  fairly  inexpen- 
sive lawns,  and,  with  simple  flowered  designs  and  per- 
fect laundering,  her  nightgowns  were  always  sweetly 
fresh  and  dainty.  In  some  publication  she  ran  across  a 
brief  printed  note  to  the  effect  that  French  women  were 
just  beginning  to  wear  fascinating  beruffled  caps  at  the 
breakfast  table.  It  meant  nothing  to  her  that  in  her  case 
she  must  first  prepare  the  breakfast.  Promptly  appeared 
in  the  house  a  yard  of  dotted  Swiss  muslin,  and  Saxon  was 
deep  in  experimenting  on  patterns  for  herself,  and  in 
sorting  her  bits  of  laces  for  suitable  trimmings.  The  re- 
sultant dainty  creation  won  Mercedes  Higgins'  enthu- 
siastic approval 

Saxon  made  for  herself  simple  house  slips  of  pretty 
gingham,  with  neat  low  collars  turned  back  from  her 
fresh  round  throat.  She  crocheted  yards  of  laces  for  her 
underwear,  and  made  Battenberg  in  abundance  for  her 
table  and  for  the  bureau.  A  great  achievement,  that 
aroused  Billy's  applause,  was  an  Afghan  for  the  bed.  She 
even  ventured  a  rag  carpet,  which,  the  women 's  maga- 
zines informed  her,  had  newly  returned  into  fashion.  As 
a  matter  of  course  she  hemstitched  the  best  table  linen 
and  bed  linen  they  could  afford. 

As  the  happy  months  went  by  she  was  never  idle.     Nor 


148  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

vras  Billy  forgotten.  When  the  cold  weather  came  on 
she  knitted  him  wristlets,  which  he  always  religiously  wore 
from  the  house  and  pocketed  immediately  thereafter.  The 
two  sweaters  she  made  for  him,  however,  received  a  better 
fate,  as  did  the  slippers  which  she  insisted  on  his  slipping 
into,  on  the  evenings  they  remained  at  home. 

The  hard  practical  wisdom  of  Mercedes  Higgins  proved 
of  immense  help,  for  Saxon  strove  with  a  fervor  almost 
religious  to  have  everything  of  the  best  and  at  the  same 
time  to  be  saving.  Here  she  faced  the  financial  and  eco- 
nomic problem  of  keeping  house  in  a  society  where  the 
cost  of  living  rose  faster  than  the  wages  of  industry.  And 
here  the  old  woman  taught  her  the  science  of  marketing 
so  thoroughly  that  she  made  a  dollar  of  Billy's  go  half  as 
far  again  as  the  wives  of  the  neighborhood  made  the 
dollars  of  their  men  go. 

Invariably,  on  Saturday  night,  Billy  poured  his  total 
wages  into  her  lap.  He  never  asked  for  an  accounting 
of  what  she  did  with  it,  though  he  continually  reiterated 
that  he  had  never  fed  so  well  in  his  life.  And  always, 
the  wages  still  untouched  in  her  lap,  she  had  him  take  out 
what  he  estimated  he  would  need  for  spending  money  for 
the  week  to  come.  Not  only  did  she  bid  him  take  plenty 
but  she  insisted  on  his  taking  any  amount  extra  that  he 
might  desire  at  any  time  through  the  week.  And,  further, 
she  insisted  he  should  not  tell  her  what  it  was  for. 

"You've  always  had  money  in  your  pocket,"  she  re- 
minded him,  "and  there's  no  reason  marriage  should 
change  that.  If  it  did,  I'd  wish  I'd  never  married  you. 
Oh,  I  know  about  men  when  they  get  together.  First 
one  treats  and  then  another,  and  it  takes  money.  Now  if 
you  can't  treat  just  as  freely  as  the  rest  of  them,  why  I 
know  you  so  well  that  I  know  you'd  stay  away  from 
them.  And  that  wouldn't  be  right  ...  to  you,  I  mean. 
I  want  you  to  be  together  with  men.  It 's  good  for  a  man. ' ' 

And  Billy  buried  her  in  his  arms  and  swore  she  was 
the  greatest  little  bit  of  woman  that  ever  came  down  the 
pike. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     149 

"Why,"  he  jubilated;  "not  only  do  I  feed  better,  and 
live  more  comfortable,  and  hold  up  my  end  with  the  fel- 
lows; but  I'm  actually  saving  money — or  you  are  for  me. 
Here  I  am,  with  furniture  being  paid  for  regular  every 
month,  and  a  little  woman  I'm  mad  over,  and  on  top  of  it 
money  in  the  bank.  How  much  is  it  now  ? ' ' 
'  "Sixty-two  dollars,"  she  told  him.  "Not  so  bad  for 
a  rainy  day.  You  might  get  sick,  or  hurt,  or  something 
happen." 

It  was  in  mid-winter,  when  Billy,  with  quite  a  deal  of 
obvious  reluctance,  broached  a  money  matter  to  Saxon. 
His  old  friend,  Billy  Murphy,  was  laid  up  with  la  grippe, 
and  one  of  his  children,  playing  in  the  street,  had  been 
seriously  injured  by  a  passing  wagon.  Billy  Murphy, 
still  feeble  after  two  weeks  in  bed,  had  asked  Billy  for 
the  loan  of  fifty  dollars. 

"It's  perfectly  safe,"  Billy  concluded  to  Saxon.  "I've 
known  him  since  we  was  kids  at  the  Durant  School  to- 
gether. He's  straight  as  a  die." 

"That's  got  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  Saxon  chided.  "If 
you  were  single  you'd  have  lent  it  to  him  immediately, 
wouldn't  you?" 

Billy  nodded. 

"Then  it's  no  different  because  you're  married.  It's 
your  money,  Billy." 

"Not  by  a  damn  sight,"  he  cried.  "It  ain't  mine.  It's 
ourn.  And  I  wouldn't  think  of  lettin'  anybody  have  it 
without  seein'  you  first." 

' '  I  hope  you  didn  't  tell  him  that, : '  she  said  with  quick 
concern. 

"Nope,"  Billy  laughed.  "I  knew,  if  I  did,  you'd  be 
madder 'n  a  hatter.  I  just  told  him  I'd  try  an'  figure  it 
out.  After  all,  I  was  sure  you'd  stand  for  it  if  you  had 
it." 

"Oh,  Billy,"  she  murmured,  her  voice  rich  and  low 
with  love;  "maybe  you  don't  know  it,  but  that's  one  of 
the  sweetest  things  you've  said  since  we  got  married." 

The  more  Saxon  saw  of  Mercedes  Higgins  the  less  did 


150  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

she  understand  her.  That  the  old  woman  was  a  close- 
fisted  miser,  Saxon  soon  learned.  And  this  trait  she  found 
hard  to  reconcile  with  her  tales  of  squandering.  On  the 
other  hand,  Saxon  was  bewildered  by  Merced es'  extrava- 
gance in  personal  matters.  Her  underlinen,  hand-made 
of  course,  was  very  costly.  The  table  she  set  for  Barry 
was  good,  but  the  table  for  herself  was  vastly  better.  Yet 
both  tables  were  set  on  the  same  table.  While  Barry  con- 
tented himself  with  solid  round  steak,  Mercedes  ate  tender- 
loin. A  huge,  tough  muttonchop  on  Barry's  plate  would 
be  balanced  by  tiny  French  chops  on  Mercedes'  plate. 
Tea  was  brewed  in  separate  pots.  So  was  coffee.  While 
Barry  gulped  twenty-five  cent  tea  from  a  large  and  heavy 
mug,  Mercedes  sipped  three-dollar  tea  from  a  tiny  cup 
of  Belleek,  rose-tinted,  fragile  as  an  egg-shell.  In  the 
same  manner,  his  twenty-five  cent  coffee  was  diluted  with 
milk,  her  eighty  cent  Turkish  with  cream. 

'  'Tis  good  enough  for  the  old  man,"  she  told  Saxon, 
"He  knows  no  better,  and  it  would  be  a  wicked  sin  to 
waste  it  on  him." 

Little  traffickings  began  between  the  two  women.  After 
Mercedes  had  freely  taught  Saxon  the  loose-wristed  facility 
of  playing  accompaniments  on  the  ukulele,  she  proposed 
an  exchange.  Her  time  was  past,  she  said,  for  such  frivoli- 
ties, and  she  offered  the  instrument  for  the  breakfast  cap 
of  which  Saxon  had  made  so  good  a  success. 

"It's  worth  a  few  dollars,"  Mercedes  said.  "It  cost 
me  twenty,  though  that  was  years  ago.  Yet  it  is  well 
worth  the  value  of  the  cap." 

"But  wouldn't  the  cap  be  frivolous,  .too?"  Saxon 
queried,  though  herself  well  pleased  with  the  bargain. 

"  'Tis  not  for  my  graying  hair,"  Mercedes  frankly  dis- 
claimed. "I  shall  sell  it  for  the  money.  Much  that  I  do, 
when  the  rheumatism  is  not  maddening  my  fingers,  I  sell. 
La  la,  my  dear,  'tis  not  old  Barry's  fifty  a  month  that'll 
satisfy  all  my  expensive  tastes.  'Tis  I  that  make  up  the 
difference.  And  old  age  needs  money  as  never  youth 
needs  it.  Some  day  you  will  learn  for  yourself." 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     151 

"I  am  well  satisfied  with  the  trade,"  Saxon  said.  "And 
I  shall  make  me  another  cap  when  I  can  lay  aside  enough 
for  the  material." 

"Make  several,"  Mercedes  advised.  "I'll  sell  them  for 
you,  keeping,  of  course,  a  small  commission  for  my  ser- 
vices. I  can  give  you  six  dollars  apiece  for  them.  "We 
will  consult  about  them.  The  profit  will  more  than  cro- 
vide  material  for  your  own." 


CHAPTER   V 

FOUR  eventful  things  happened  in  the  course  of  the 
winter.  Bert  and  Mary  got  married  and  rented  a  cottage 
in  the  neighborhood  three  blocks  away.  Billy's  wages  were 
cut,  along  with  the  wages  of  all  the  teamsters  in  Oakland. 
Billy  took  up  shaving  with  a  safety  razor.  And,  finally, 
Saxon  was  proven  a  false  prophet  and  Sarah  a  true  one. 

Saxon  made  up  her  mind,  beyond  any  doubt,  ere  she 
confided  the  news  to  Billy.  At  first,  while  still  suspecting, 
she  had  felt  a  frightened  sinking  of  the  heart  and  fear  of 
the  unknown  and  unexperienced.  Then  had  come  econ- 
omic fear,  as  she  contemplated  the  increased  expense  en- 
tailed. But  by  the  time  she  had  made  surety  doubly  sure, 
all  was  swept  away  before  a  wave  of  passionate  gladness. 
Hers  and  Billy's!  The  phrase  was  continually  in  her 
mind,  and  each  recurrent  thought  of  it  brought  an  actual 
physical  pleasure-pang  to  her  heart. 

The  night  she  told  the  news  to  Billy,  he  withheld  his 
own  news  of  the  wage-cut,  and  joined  with  her  in  welcom- 
ing the  little  one. 

"What  11  we  do?    Go  to  the  theater  to  celebrate?" 

he  asked,  relaxing  the  pressure  of  his  embrace  so  that  she 
might  speak.  "Or  suppose  we  stay  in,  just  you  and  me, 
and  .  .  .  and  the  three  of  us?" 

"Stay  in,"  was  her  verdict.  "I  just  want  you  to  hold 
me,  and  hold  me,  and  hold  me." 

"That's  what  I  wanted,  too,  only  I  wasn't  sure,  after 
bein'  in  the  house  all  day,  maybe  you'd  want  to  go  out." 

There  was  frost  in  the  air,  and  Billy  brought  the  Morris 
chair  in  by  the  kitchen  stove.  She  lay  cuddled  in  his 
arms,  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  his  cheek  against  her 
hair. 

-152 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      153 

"We  didn't  make  no  mistake  in  our  lightning  marriage 
with  only  a  week's  courtin',"  he  reflected  aloud.  "Why, 
Saxon,  we've  been  courtin'  ever  since  just  the  same.  And 
now  .  .  .  my  God,  Saxon,  it's  too  wonderful  to  be  true. 
Think  of  it !  Ourn !  The  three  of  us !  The  little  rascal ! 
I  bet  he's  goin'  to  be  a  boy.  An'  won't  I  learn  'm  to 
put  up  his  fists  an'  take  care  of  himself!  An'  swirmnin', 
too.  If  he  don't  know  how  to  swim  by  the  time  he's 
six.  .  .  ." 

"And  if  he's  a  girl?" 

"She's  goin'  to  be  a  boy,"  Billy  retorted,  joining  in  the 
playful  misuse  of  pronouns. 

And  both  laughed  and  kissed,  and  sighed  with  content. 

"I'm  goin'  to  turn  pincher,  now,"  he  announced,  after 
quite  an  interval  of  meditation.  "No  more  drinks  with 
the  boys.  It's  me  for  the  water  wagon.  And  I'm  goin' 
to  ease  down  on  smokes.  Huh!  Don't  see  why  I  can't 
roll  my  own  cigarettes.  They  're  ten  times  cheaper  'n  tailor- 
mades.  An'  I  can  grow  a  beard.  The  amount  of  money 
the  barbers  get  out  of  a  fellow  in  a  year  would  keep  a 
baby." 

"Just  you  let  your  beard  grow,  Mister  Roberts,  and 
I'll  get  a  divorce,"  Saxon  threatened.  "You're  just  too 
handsome  and  strong  with  a  smooth  face.  I  love  your  face 

too  much  to  have  it  covered  up.  Oh,  you  dear!  you 

dear!  Billy,  I  never  knew  what  happiness  was  until  I 
came  to  live  with  you." 

"Nor  me  neither." 

"And  it's  always  going  to  be  so?" 

"You  can  just  bet,"  he  assured  her. 

"I  thought  I  was  going  to  be  happy  married,"  she 
went  on;  "but  I  never  dreamed  it  would  be  like  this." 
She  turned  her  head  on  his  shoulder  and  kissed  his  cheek. 
"Billy,  it  isn't  happiness.  It's  heaven." 

And  Billy  resolutely  kept  undivulged  the  cut  in  wages. 
Not  until  two  weeks  later,  when  it  went  into  effect,  and 
he  poured  the  diminished  sum  into  her  lap,  did  he  break 
it  to  her.  The  next  day,  Bert  and  Mary,  already  a  month 


154  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

married,  had  Sunday  dinner  with  them,  and  the  matter 
came  up  for  discussion.  Bert  was  particularly  pessimis- 
tic, and  muttered  dark  hints  of  an  impending  strike  in 
the  railroad  shops. 

"If  you'd  all  shut  your  traps,  it'd  be  all  right,"  Mary 
criticized.  "These  union  agitators  get  the  railroad  sore. 
They  give  me  the  cramp,  the  way  they  butt  in  an'  stir^ 
up  trouble.  If  I  was  boss  I'd  cut  the  wages  of  any  man 
that  listened  to  them." 

"Yet  you  belonged  to  the  laundry  workers'  union,'' 
Saxon  rebuked  gently. 

"Because  I  had  to  or  I  wouldn't  a-got  work.  An'  much 
good  it  ever  done  me." 

"But  look  at  Billy,"  Bert  argued.  "The  teamsters 
ain't  ben  sayin'  a  word,  not  a  peep,  an'  everything  lovely, 
and  then,  bang,  right  in  the  neck,  a  ten  per  cent.  cut. 
Oh,  hell,  what  chance  have  we  got?  We  lose.  There's 
nothin'  left  for  us  in  this  country  we've  made  and  our 
fathers  an'  mothers  before  us.  We're  all  shot  to  pieces. 
We  can  see  our  finish — we,  the  old  stock,  the  children  of 
the  white  people  that  broke  away  from  England  an'  licked 
the  tar  outa  her,  that  freed  the  slaves,  an'  fought  the  In- 
dians, an'  made  the  West!  Any  gink  with  half  an  eye 
can  see  it  comin'." 

"But  what  are  we  going  to  do  about  it?"  Saxon  ques- 
tioned anxiously. 

"Fight.  That's  all.  The  country's  in  the  hands  of  a 
gang  of  robbers.  Look  at  the  Southern  Pacific.  It  runs 
California." 

"Aw,  rats,  Bert,"  Billy  interupted.  "You're  talkin' 
through  your  lid.  No  railroad  can  run  the  government 
of  California." 

"You're  a  bonehead,"  Bert  sneered.  "And  some  day. 
When  it's  too  late,  you  an'  all  the  other  boneheads'll  realize 
the  fact.  Rotten?  I  tell  you  it  stinks.  Why,  there  ain't 
a  man  who  wants  to  go  to  state  legislature  but  has  to 
make  a  trip  to  San  Francisco,  an'  go  into  the  S.  P.  offices, 
an'  take  his  hat  off,  an'  humbly  ask  permission.  Why, 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     155 

the  governors  of  California  has  been  railroad  governors 
since  before  you  and  I  was  born.  Huh!  You  can't  tell 
me.  We're  finished.  "We're  licked  to  a  frazzle.  But  it'd 
do  my  heart  good  to  help  string  up  some  of  the  dirty 
thieves  before  I  passed  out.  D  'ye  know  what  we  are  ? — we 
old  white  stock  that  fought  in  the  wars,  an '  broke  the  land, 
an'  made  all  this?  I'll  tell  you.  We're  the  last  of  the. 
Mohegans. ' ' 

"He  scares  me  to  death,  he's  so  violent,"  Mary  said 
with  unconcealed  hostility.  "If  he  don't  quit  shootin* 
off  his  mouth  he'll  get  fired  from  the  shops.  And  then 
what '11  we  do?  He  don't  consider  me.  But  I  can  tell 
you  one  thing  all  right,  all  right.  I'll  not  go  back  to  the 
laundry."  She  held  her  right  hand  up  and  spoke  with 
the  solemnity  of  an  oath.  ' '  Not  so 's  you  can  see  it.  Never 
again  for  yours  truly." 

"Oh,  I  know  what  you're  drivin'  at,"  Bert  said  with 
asperity.  "An'  all  I  can  tell  you  is,  livin'  or  dead,  in 
a  job  or  out,  no  matter  what  happens  to  me,  if  you  will 
lead  that  way,  you  will,  an'  there's  nothin'  else  to  it." 

"I  guess  I  kept  straight  before  I  met  you,"  she  came 
back  with  a  toss  of  the  head.  "And  I  kept  straight  after 
I  met  you,  which  is  going  some  if  anybody  should  ask 
you. ' ' 

Hot  words  were  on  Bert's  tongue,  but  Saxon  intervened 
and  brought  about  peace.  She  was  concerned  over  the 
outcome  of  their  marriage.  Both  were  highstrung,  both 
were  quick  and  irritable,  and  their  continual  clashes  did 
not  augur  well  for  their  future. 

The  safety  razor  was  a  great  achievement  for  Saxon. 
Privily  she  conferred  with  a  clerk  she  knew  in  Pierce 's 
hardware  store  and  made  the  purchase.  On  Sunday 
morning,  after  breakfast,  when  Billy  was  starting  to  go 
to  the  barber  shop,  she  led  him  into  the  bedroom,  whisked 
a  towel  aside,  and  revealed  the  razor  box,  shaving  mug, 
soap,  brush,  and  lather  all  ready.  Billy  recoiled,  then 
came  back  to  make  curious  investigation.  He  gazed  pity- 
ingly at  the  safety  razor. 


156  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

"Huh!    Call  that  a  man's  tool!" 

"It'll  do  the  work,"  she  said.  "It  does  it  for  thou- 
sands of  men  every  day." 

But  Billy  shook  his  head  and  backed  away. 

"You  shave  three  times  a  week,"  she  urged.  "That's 
forty-five  cents.  Call  it  half  a  dollar,  and  there  are  fifty- 
two  weeks  in  the  year.  Twenty-six  dollars  a  year  just  for 
shaving.  Come  on,  dear,  and  try  it.  Lots  of  men  swear 
by  it." 

He  shook  his  head  mutinously,  and  the  cloudy  deeps 
of  his  eyes  grew  more  cloudy.  She  loved  that  sullen  hand- 
someness that  made  him  look  so  boyish,  and,  laughing  and 
kissing  him,  she  forced  him  into  a  chair,  got  off  his  coat, 
and  unbuttoned  shirt  and  undershirt  and  turned  them  in. 

Threatening  him  with,  "If  you  open  your  mouth  to 
kick  I'll  shove  it  in,"  she  coated  his  face  with  lather. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  she  checked  him,  as  he  reached  des- 
perately for  the  razor.  "I've  been  watching  the  barbers 
from  the  sidewalk.  This  is  what  they  do  after  the  lather 
is  on." 

And  thereupon  she  proceeded  to  rub  the  lather  in  with 
her  fingers. 

"There,"  she  said,  when  she  had  coated  his  face  a  sec- 
ond time.  "You're  ready  to  begin.  Only  remember,  I'm 
not  always  going  to  do  this  for  you.  I'm  just  breaking 
you  in,  you  see." 

With  great  outward  show  of  rebellion,  half  genuine, 
half  facetious,  he  made  several  tentative  scrapes  with  the 
razor.  He  winced  violently,  and  violently  exclaimed: 

"Holy  jumping  Jehosaphat!" 

He  examined  his  face  in  the  glass,  and  a  streak  of  blood 
showed  in  the  midst  of  the  lather. 

' '  Cut ! — by  a  safety  razor,  by  God !  Sure,  men  swear 
by  it.  Can't  blame  'em.  Cut!  By  a  safety!" 

"But  wait  a  second,"  Saxon  pleaded.  "They  have  to 
be  regulated.  The  clerk  told  me.  See  those  little  screws. 
There  .  .  .  that's  it  ...  turn  them  around." 

Again  Billy  applied  the  blade  to  his  face.     After  a 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     157 

couple  of  scrapes,  he  looked  at  himself  closely  in  the  mir- 
ror, grinned,  and  went  on  shaving.  With  swiftness  and 
dexterity  he  scraped  his  face  clean  of  lather.  Saxon 
clapped  her  hands. 

"Fine,"  Billy  approved.  "Great!  Here.  Give  me 
your  hand.  See  what  a  good  job  it  made." 

He  started  to  rub  her  hand  against  his  cheek.  Saxon 
jerked  away  with  a  little  cry  of  disappointment,  then  ex- 
amined him  closely. 

"It  hasn't  shaved  at  all,"  she  said. 

"It's  a  fake,  that's  what  it  is.  It  cuts  the  hide,  but  not 
the  hair.  Me  for  the  barber." 

But  Saxon  was  persistent. 

"You  haven't  given  it  a  fair  trial  yet.  It  was  regulated 
too  much.  Let  me  try  my  hand  at  it.  There,  that's  it, 
betwixt  and  between.  Now,  lather  again  and  try  it." 

This  time  the  unmistakable  sand-papery  sound  of  hair- 
severing  could  be  heard. 

"How  is  it?"  she  fluttered  anxiously. 

"It  gets  the — ouch! — hair,"  Billy  grunted,  frowning 
and  making  faces.  "But  it — gee! — say! — ouch! — pulls 
like  Sam  Hill." 

"Stay  with  it,"  she  encouraged.  "Don't  give  up  the 
ship,  big  Injun  with  a  scalplock.  Remember  what  Bert 
says  and  be  the  last  of  the  Mohegans." 

At  the  end  of  fifteen  minutes  he  rinsed  his  face  and 
dried  it,  sighing  with  relief. 

"It's  a  shave,  in  a  fashion,  Saxon,  but  I  can't  say  I'm 
stuck  on  it.  It  takes  out  the  nerve.  I'm  as  weak  as 
a  cat." 

He  groaned  with  sudden  discovery  of  fresh  misfortune. 

"What's  the  matter  now?"  she  asked. 

"The  back  of  my  neck — how  can  I  shave  the  back  of 
my  neck?  I'll  have  to  pay  a  barber  to  do  it." 

Saxon's  consternation  was  tragic,  but  it  only  lasted  a 
moment.  She  took  the  brush  in  her  hand. 

"Sit  down,  Billy." 

"What? — you?"  he  demanded  indignantly. 


158  THE   VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

"Yes;  me.  If  any  barber  is  good  enough  to  shave  your 
neck,  and  then  I  am,  too." 

Billy  moaned  and  groaned  in  the  abjectness  of  humility 
and  surrender,  and  let  her  have  her  way. 

"There,  and  a  good  job,"  she  informed  him  when  she 
had  finished.  "As  easy  as  falling  off  a  log.  And  besides, 
it  means  twenty-six  dollars  a  year.  And  you'll  buy  the 
crib,  the  baby  buggy,  the  pinning  blankets,  and  lots  and 
lots  of  things  with  it.  Now  sit  still  a  minute  longer." 

She  rinsed  and  dried  the  back  of  his  neck  and  dusted 
it  with  talcum  powder. 

"You're  as  sweet  as  a  clean  little  baby,  Billy  Boy." 

The  unexpected  and  lingering  impact  of  her  lips  on  the 
back  of  his  neck  made  him  writhe  with  mingled  feelings 
not  all  unpleasant. 

Two  days  later,  though  vowing  in  the  intervening  time 
to  have  nothing  further  to  do  with  the  instrument  of  the 
devil,  he  permitted  Saxon  to  assist  him  to  a  second  shave. 
This  time  it  went  easier. 

"It  ain't  so  bad,"  he  admitted.  "I'm  gettin'  the  hang 
of  it.  It's  all  in  the  regulating.  You  can  shave  as  close  as 
you  want  an '  no  more  close  than  you  want.  Barbers  can 't 
do  that.  Every  once  an'  a  while  they  get  my  face  sore." 

The  third  shave  was  an  unqualified  success,  and  the 
culminating  bliss  was  reached  when  Saxon  presented  him 
with  a  bottle  of  witch  hazel.  After  that  he  began  active 
proselyting.  He  could  not  wait  a  visit  from  Bert,  but 
carried  the  paraphernalia  to  the  latter 's  house  to  demon- 
strate. 

""We've  ben  boobs  all  these  years,  Bert,  runnin'  the 
chances  of  barber's  itch  an'  everything.  Look  at  this,  eh? 
See  her  take  hold.  Smooth  as  silk.  Just  as  easy.  .  .  . 
There!  Six  minutes  by  the  clock.  Can  you  beat  it? 
When  I  get  my  hand  in,  I  can  do  it  in  three.  It  works 
in  the  dark.  It  works  under  water.  You  couldn't  cut 
yourself  if  you  tried.  And  it  saves  twenty-six  dollars 
a  year.  Saxon  figured  it  out,  and  she's  a  wonder,  I  tell 
you." 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  trafficking  between  Saxon  and  Mercedes  increased. 
The  latter  commanded  a  ready  market  for  all  the  fine 
work  Saxon  could  supply,  while  Saxon  was  eager  and 
happy  in  the  work.  The  expected  babe  and  the  cut  in 
Billy's  wages  had  caused  her  to  regard  the  economic  phase 
of  existence  more  seriously  than  ever.  Too  little  money 
was  being  laid  away  in  the  bank,  and  her  conscience 
pricked  her  as  she  considered  how  much  she  was  laying  out 
on  the  pretty  necessaries  for  the  household  and  herself. 
Also,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  was  spending  an- 
other's earnings.  Since  a  young  girl  she  had  been  used 
to  spending  her  own,  and  now,  thanks  to  Mercedes,  she 
was  doing  it  again,  and,  out  of  her  profits,  essaying  more 
expensive  and  delightful  adventures  in  lingerie. 

Mercedes  suggested,  and  Saxon  carried  out  and  even 
bettered,  the  dainty  things  of  thread  and  texture.  She 
made  ruffled  chemises  of  sheer  linen,  with  her  own  fine 
edgings  and  French  embroidery  on  breast  and  shoulders; 
linen  hand-made  combination  undersuits;  and  night- 
gowns, fairy  and  cobwebby,  embroidered,  trimmed  with 
Irish  lace.  On  Mercedes'  instigation  she  executed  an  am- 
bitious and  wonderful  breakfast  cap  for  which  the  old 
woman  returned  her  twelve  dollars  after  deducting  com- 
mission. 

She  was  happy  and  busy  every  waking  moment,  nor 
was  preparation  for  the  little  one  neglected.  The  only 
ready  made  garments  she  bought  were  three  fine  little  knit 
shirts.  As  for  the  rest,  every  bit  was  made  by  her  own 
hands — featherstitehed  pinning  blankets,  a  crocheted 
jacket  and  cap,  knitted  mittens,  embroidered  bonnets; 
slim  little  princess  slips  of  sensible  length;  underskirts 
159 


160  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

on  absurd  Lilliputian  yokes;  silk-embroidered  white  flan- 
nel petticoats;  stockings  and  crocheted  boots,  seeming  to 
burgeon  before  her  eyes  with  wriggly  pink  toes  and  plump 
little  calves;  and  last,  but  not  least,  many  deliciously  soft 
squares  of  bird's-eye  linen.  A  little  later,  as  a  crowning 
masterpiece,  she  was  guilty  of  a  dress  coat  of  white  silk, 
(embroidered.  And  into  all  the  tiny  garments,  with  every 
'stitch,  she  sewed  love.  Yet  this  love,  so  unceasingly  sewn, 
she  knew  when  she  came  to  consider  and  marvel,  was 
more  of  Billy  than  of  the  nebulous,  ungraspable  new  bit  of 
life  that  eluded  her  fondest  attempts  at  visioning. 

' '  Huh, ' '  was  Billy 's  comment,  as  he  went  over  the  mite 's 
wardrobe  and  came  back  to  center  on  the  little  knit  shirts, 
"they  look  more  like  a  real  kid  than  the  whole  kit  an' 
caboodle.  Why,  I  can  see  him  in  them  regular  man- 
shirts." 

Saxon,  with  a  sudden  rush  of  happy,  unshed  tears,  held 
one  of  the  little  shirts  up  to  his  lips.  He  kissed  it  sol- 
emnly, his  eyes  resting  on  Saxon's. 

"That's  some  for  the  boy,"  he  said,  "but  a  whole  lot 
for  you." 

But  Saxon's  money-earning  was  doomed  to  cease  ig- 
nominiously  and  tragically.  One  day,  to  take  advantage 
of  a  department  store  bargain  sale,  she  crossed  the  bay  to 
San  Francisco.  Passing  along  Slitter  Street,  her  eye  was 
attracted  by  a  display  in  the  small  window  of  a  small  shop. 
At  first  she  could  not  believe  it ;  yet  there,  in  the  honored 
place  of  the  window,  was  the  wonderful  breakfast  cap 
for  which  she  had  received  twelve  dollars  from  Mercedes. 
It  was  marked  twenty-eight  dollars.  Saxon  went  in  and 
interviewed  the  shopkeeper,  an  emaciated,  shrewd-eyed  and 
middle-aged  woman  of  foreign  extraction. 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  to  buy  anything,"  Saxon  said.  "I 
make  nice  things  like  you  have  here,  and  I  wanted  to 
know  what  you  pay  for  them — for  that  breakfast  cap  in 
the  window,  for  instance." 

The  woman  darted  a  keen  glance  to  Saxon's  left  hand, 
noted  the  innumerable  tiny  punctures  in  the  ends  of  the 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      161 

first  and  second  fingers,  then  appraised  her  clothing  and 
her  face. 

"Can  you  do  work  like  that?" 

Saxon  nodded. 

"I  paid  twenty  dollars  to  the  woman  that  made  that." 

Saxon  repressed  an  almost  spasmodic  gasp,  and  thought 
coolly  for  a  space.  Mercedes  had  given  her  twelve.  Then 
Mercedes  had  pocketed  eight,  while  she,  Saxon,  had  fur- 
nished the  material  and  labor. 

"  Would  you  please  show  me  other  hand-made  things — 
nightgowns,  chemises,  and  such  things,  and  tell  me  the 
prices  you  pay?" 

"Can  you  do  such  work?" 

"Yes." 

"And  will  you  sell  to  me?" 

"Certainly,"  Saxon  answered.  "That  is  why  I  am 
here." 

""We  add  only  a  small  amount  when  we  sell,"  the 
woman  went  on ;  "  you  see,  light  and  rent  and  such  things, 
as  well  as  a  profit  or  else  we  could  not  be  here." 

"It's  only  fair,"  Saxon  agreed. 

Amongst  the  beautiful  stuff  Saxon  went  over,  she  found 
a  nightgown  and  a  combination  undersuit  of  her  own 
manufacture.  For  the  former  she  had  received  eight  dol- 
lars from  Mercedes,  it  was  marked  eighteen,  and  the 
woman  had  paid  fourteen;  for  the  latter  Saxon  received 
six,  it  was  marked  fifteen,  and  the  woman  had  paid  eleven. 

"Thank  you,"  Saxon  said,  as  she  drew  on  her  gloves. 
"I  should  like  to  bring  you  some  of  my  work  at  those 
prices." 

"And  I  shall  be  glad  to  buy  it  .  .  .  if  it  is  up  to 
the  mark."  The  woman  looked  at  her  severely.  "Mind 
you,  it  must  be  as  good  as  this.  And  if  it  is,  I  often  get 
special  orders,  and  I'll  give  you  a  chance  at  them." 

Mercedes  was  unblushingly  candid  when  Saxon  re- 
proached her. 

' '  You  told  me  you  took  only  a  commission, ' '  was  Saxon 's 
accusation. 


16-2  THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

"So  I  did;    and  so  I  have." 

''But  I  did  all  the  work  and  bought  all  the  materials, 
yet  you  actually  cleared  more  out  of  it  than  I  did.  You 
got  the  lion's  share." 

"And  why  shouldn't  I,  my  dear?  I  was  the  middle- 
,man.  It's  the  way  of  the  world.  'Tis  the  middlemen 
that  get  the  lion's  share." 

"It  seems  to  me  most  unfair,"  Saxon  reflected,  more 
in  sadness  than  anger. 

"That  is  your  quarrel  with  the  world,  not  with  me," 
Mercedes  rejoined  sharply,  then  immediately  softened  with 
one  of  her  quick  changes.  "We  mustn't  quarrel,  my 
dear.  I  like  you  so  much.  La  la,  it  is  nothing  to  you, 
who  are  young  and  strong  with  a  man  young  and  strong. 
Listen,  I  am  an  old  woman.  And  old  Barry  can  do  little 
for  me.  He  is  on  his  last  legs.  His  kidneys  are  'most 
gone.  Remember,  'tis  I  must  bury  him.  And  I  do  him 
honor,  for  beside  me  he'll  have  his  last  long  sleep.  A 
stupid,  dull  old  man,  heavy,  an  ox,  'tis  true;  but  a  good 
old  fool  with  no  trace  of  evil  in  him.  The  plot  is  bought 
and  paid  for — the  final  installment  was  made  up,  in  part, 
out  of  my  commissions  from  you.  Then  there  are  the 
funeral  expenses.  It  must  be  done  nicely.  I  have  still 
much  to  save.  And  Barry  may  turn  up  his  toes  any  day. ' ' 

Saxon  sniffed  the  air  carefully,  and  knew  the  old  woman 
had  been  drinking  again. 

"Come,  my  dear,  let  me  show  you."  Leading  Saxon 
to  a  large  sea  chest  in  the  bedroom,  Mercedes  lifted  the 
lid.  A  faint  perfume,  as  of  rose-petals,  floated  up.  "Be- 
hold, my  burial  trousseau.  Thus  I  shall  wed  the  dust." 

Saxon's  amazement  increased,  as,  article  by  article,  the 
old  woman,  displayed  the  airiest,  the  daintiest,  the  most 
delicious  and  most  complete  of  bridal  outfits.  Mercedes 
held  up  an  ivory  fan. 

"In  Venice  'twas  given  me,  my  dear.  See,  this  comb, 

turtle  shell ;  Bruce  Anstey  made  it  for  me  the  week  before 
he  drank  his  last  bottle  and  scattered  his  brave  mad  brains 


THE   VALLEY   OF   THE    MOON  163 

with  a  Colt's  44.    This  scarf.    La  la,  a  Liberty  scarf 

"And  all  that  will  be  buried  with  you,"  Saxon  mused. 
"Oh,  the  extravagance  of  it!" 

Mercedes  laughed. 

"Why  not?  I  shall  die  as  I  have  lived.  It  is  my 
pleasure.  I  go  to  the  dust  as  a  bride.  No  cold  and  nar- 
row bed  for  me.  I  would  it  were  a  couch,  covered  with  the 
soft  things  of  the  East,  and  pillows,  pillows,  without 
end." 

"It  would  buy  you  twenty  funerals  and  twenty  plots," 
Saxon  protested,  shocked  by  this  blasphemy  of  conven- 
tional death.  "It  is  downright  wicked." 

"  'Twill  be  as  I  have  lived,"  Mercedes  said  compla- 
cently. "And  it's  a  fine  bride  old  Barry '11  have  to  come 
and  lie  beside  him."  She  closed  the  lid  and  sighed 
' '  Though  I  wish  it  were  Bruce  Anstey,  or  any  of  the  pick 
of  my  young  men  to  lie  with  me  in  the  great  dark  and 
to  crumble  with  me  to  the  dust  that  is  the  real  death." 

She  gazed  at  Saxon  with  eyes  heated  by  alcohol  and  at 
the  same  time  cool  with  the  coolness  of  content. 

"In  the  old  days  the  great  of  earth  were  buried  with 
their  live  slaves  with  them.  I  but  take  my  flimsies,  my 
dear." 

"Then  you  aren't  afraid  of  death?  ...  in  the 
least?" 

Mercedes  shook  her  head  emphatically. 

"Death  is  brave,  and  good,  and  kind.  I  do  not  fear 
death.  'Tis  of  men  I  am  afraid  when  I  am  dead.  So 
I  prepare.  They  shall  not  have  me  when  I  am  dead." 

Saxon  was  puzzled. 

"They  would  not  want  you  then,"  she  said. 

"Many  are  wanted,"  was  the  answer.  "Do  you  know 
what  becomes  of  the  aged  poor  who  have  no  money  for 
burial?  They  are  not  buried.  Let  me  tell  you.  We  stood 
before  great  doors.  He  was  a  queer  man,  a  professor  who 
ought  to  have  been  a  pirate,  a  man  who  lectured  in  class 
rooms  when  he  ought  to  have  been  storming  walled  cities 


164  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

or  robbing  banks.  He  was  slender,  like  Don  Juan.  HiL 
hands  were  strong  as  steel.  So  was  his  spirit.  And  he 
was  mad,  a  bit  mad,  as  all  my  young  men  have  been, 
'  Come,  Mercedes, '  he  said ;  '  we  will  inspect  our  brethren 
and  become  humble,  and  glad  that  we  are  not  as  they — as 
yet  not  yet.  And  afterward,  to-night,  we  will  dine  with 
a  more  devilish  taste,  and  we  will  drink  to  them  in  golden 
wine  that  will  be  the  more  golden  for  having  seen  them. 
Come,  Mercedes.' 

"He  thrust  the  great  doors  open,  and  by  the  hand  led 
me  in.  It  was  a  sad  company.  Twenty-four,  that  lay 
on  marble  slabs,  or  sat,  half  erect  and  propped,  while 
many  young  men,  bright  of  eye,  bright  little  knives  in 
their  hands,  glanced  curiously  at  me  from  their  work." 

"They  were  dead?"  Saxon  interrupted  to  gasp. 

"They  were  the  pauper  dead,  my  dear.  'Come,  Mer- 
cedes,' said  he.  'There  is  more  to  show  you  that  will 
make  us  glad  we  are  alive. '  And  he  took  me  down,  down 
to  the  vats.  The  salt  vats,  my  dear.  I  was  not  afraid. 
But  it  was  in  my  mind,  then,  as  I  looked,  how  it  would 
be  with  me  when  I  was  dead.  And  there  they  were,  so 
•jiany  lumps  of  pork.  And  the  order  came,  'A  woman; 
an  old  woman.'  And  the  man  who  worked  there  fished 
in  the  vats.  The  first  was  a  man  he  drew  to  see.  Again 
he  fished  and  stirred.  Again  a  man.  He  was  impatient, 
and  grumbled  at  his  luck.  And  then,  up  through  the 
brine,  he  drew  a  woman,  and  by  the  face  of  her  she  was 
old,  and  he  was  satisfied." 

"It  is  not  true!"  Saxon  cried  out. 

"I  have  seen,  my  dear,  I  know.  And  I  tell  you  fear 
not  the  wrath  of  God  when  you  are  dead.  Fear  only  the 
salt  vats.  And  as  I  stood  and  looked,  and  as  he  who  led 
me  there  looked  at  me  and  smiled  and  questioned  and 
bedeviled  me  with  those  mad,  black,  tired-scholar's  eyes 
of  his,  I  knew  that  that  was  no  way  for  my  dear  clay. 
Dear  it  is,  my  clay  to  me;  dear  it  has  been  to  others, 
La  la,  the  salt  vat  is  no  place  for  my  kissed  lips  and  love- 
lavished  body."  Mercedes  lifted  the  lid  of  the  chest  and 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     165 

gazed  fondly  at  her  burial  pretties.  "So  I  have  made  my 
bed.  So  I  shall  lie  in  it.  Some  old  philosopher  said:  we 
know  we  must  die;  we  do  not  believe  it.  But  the  old 
do  believe.  I  believe. 

"My  dear,  remember  the  salt  vats,  and  do  not  be  angry 
with  me  because  my  commissions  have  been  heavy.  To 
escape  the  vats  I  would  stop  at  nothing — steal  the  widow's 
mite,  the  orphan's  crust,  and  pennies  from  a  dead  man's 
eyes. ' ' 

"Do  you  believe  in  God?"  Saxon  asked  abruptly,  hold- 
ing herself  together  despite  cold  horror. 

Mercedes  dropped  the  lid  and  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Who  knows?     I  shall  rest  well." 

"And  punishment?"  Saxon  probed,  remembering  the 
unthinkable  tale  of  the  other's  life. 

"Impossible,  my  dear.  As  some  old  poet  said,  'God's 
a  good  fellow.'  Some  time  I  shall  talk  to  you  about  God. 
Never  be  afraid  of  him.  Be  afraid  only  of  the  salt  vats 
and  the  things  men  may  do  with  your  pretty  fl«»h  after 
you  are  d««d." 


CHAPTER  VII 

BILLY  quarreled  with  good  fortune.  He  suspected  he 
was  too  prosperous  on  the  wages  he  received.  "What  with 
the  accumulating  savings  account,  the  paying  of  the 
monthly  furniture  installment  and  the  house  rent,  the 
spending  money  in  pocket,  and  the  good  fare  he  was 
eating,  he  was  puzzled  as  to  how  Saxon  managed  to  pay 
for  the  goods  used  in  her  fancy  work.  Several  times  he 
had  suggested  his  inability  to  see  how  she  did  it,  and 
been  baffled  each  time  by  Saxon's  mysterious  laugh. 

"I  can't  see  how  you  do  it  on  the  money,"  he  was  con 
tending  one  evening. 

He  opened  his  mouth  to  speak  further,  then  closed 
it  and  for  five  minutes  thought  with  knitted  brows. 

"Say,"  he  said,  "what's  become  of  that  frilly  break- 
fi*st  cap  you  was  workin'  on  so  hard?  I  ain't  never  seen 
you  wear  it,  and  it  was  sure  too  big  for  the  kid." 

Saxon  hesitated,  with  pursed  lips  and  teasing  eyes. 
With  her,  untruthfulness  had  always  been  a  difficult  mat- 
ter. To  Billy  it  was  impossible.  She  could  see  the  cloud- 
drift  in  his  eyes  deepening  and  his  face  hardening  in 
the  way  she  knew  so  well  when  he  was  vexed. 

"Say,  Saxon,  you  ain't  .  .  .  you  ain't  .  .  .  sel 
lin*  your  work?" 

And  thereat  she  related  everything,  not  omitting  Mer- 
cedes Higgins'  part  in  the  transaction,  nor  Mercedes  Hig- 
gins'  remarkable  burial  trousseau.  But  Billy  was  not  to 
be  led  aside  by  the  latter.  In  terms  anything  but  uncer= 
tain  he  told  Saxon  that  she  was  not  to  work  for  money. 

"Bit  I  have  so  much  spare  time,  Billy,  dear,"  she 
pleaded. 

He  shook  his  head. 

166 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     167 

"Nothing  doing.  I  won't  listen  to  it.  I  married  you, 
and  I  '11  take  care  of  you.  Nobody  can  say  Bill  Roberts' 
wife  has  to  work.  And  I  don't  want  to  think  it  myself. 
Besides,  it  ain't  necessary." 

"But  Billy "  she  began  again. 

"Nope.  That's  one  thing  I  won't  stand  for,  Saxon. 
Not  that  I  don't  like  fancy  work.  I  do.  I  like  it  like 
hell,  every  bit  you  make,  but  I  like  it  on  you.  Go  ahead 
and  make  all  you  want  of  it,  for  yourself,  an'  I'll  put  up 
for  the  goods.  Why,  I  'm  just  whistlin'  an'  happy  all 
day  long,  thinkin'  of  the  boy  an'  seein'  you  at  home 
here  workin'  away  on  all  them  nice  things.  Because  I 
know  how  happy  you  are  a-doin'  it.  But  honest  to  God, 
Saxon,  it'd  all  be  spoiled  if  I  knew  you  was  doin'  it  to  sell. 
You  see,  Bill  Roberts'  wife  don't  have  to  work.  That's 
my  brag — to  myself,  mind  you.  An'  besides,  it  ain't 
right." 

"You're  a  dear,"  she  whispered,  happy  despite  hef 
disappointment. 

"I  want  you  to  have  all  you  want,"  he  continued. 
"An'  you're  goin'  to  get  it  as  long  as  I  got  two  hands 
stickin'  on  the  ends  of  my  arms.  I  guess  I  know  how  good 
the  things  are  you  wear — good  to  me,  I  mean,  too.  I'm 
dry  behind  the  ears,  an'  maybe  I've  learned  a  few  things 
I  oughn't  to  before  I  knew  you.  But  I  know  what  I'm 
talkin'  about,  and  I  want  to  say  that  outside  the  clothes 
down  underneath,  an'  the  clothes  down  underneath  the 
outside  ones,  I  never  saw  a  woman  like  you.  Oh " 

He  threw  up  his  hands  as  if  despairing  of  ability  to? 
express  what  he  thought  and  felt,  then  essayed  a  further 
attempt. 

"It's  not  a  matter  of  bein'  only  clean,  though  that's  a 
whole  lot.  Lots  of  women  are  clean.  It  ain't  that.  It's 
something  more,  an'  different.  It's  .  .  .  well,  it's  the 
look  of  it,  so  white,  an'  pretty,  an'  tasty.  It  gets  on  the 
imagination.  It's  something  I  can't  get  out  of  my 
thoughts  of  you.  I  want  to  tell  you  lots  of  men  can't 
strip  to  advantage,  an'  lots  of  women,  too.  But  you — well, 


168  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

you're  a  wonder,  that's  all,  and  you  can't  get  too  many 
of  them  nice  things  to  suit  me,  and  you  can't  get  them 
too  nice. 

"For  that  matter,  Saxon,  you  can  just  blow  yourself. 
There's  lots  of  easy  money  layin'  around.  I'm  in  great 
condition.  Billy  Murphy  pulled  down  seventy-five  round 
iron  dollars  only  last  week  for  puttin'  away  the  Pride  of 
North  Beach.  That's  what  he  paid  us  the  fifty  back 
out  of." 

But  this  time  it  was  Saxon  who  rebelled. 

"There's  Carl  Hensen,"  Billy  argued.  "The  second 
Sharkey,  the  alfalfa  sportin'  writers  are  callin'  him.  An' 
he  calls  himself  Champion  of  the  United  States  Navy. 
Well,  I  got  his  number.  He's  just  a  big  stiff.  I've 
seen  'm  fight,  an'  I  can  pass  him  the  sleep  medicine  just 
as  easy.  The  Secretary  of  the  Sportin'  Life  Club  offered 
to  match  me.  An'  a  hundred  iron  dollars  in  it  for  the 
winner.  And  it'll  all  be  yours  to  blow  in  any  way  you 
want.  What  d'ye  say?" 

"If  I  can't  work  for  money,  you  can't  fight,"  was  Sax- 
on's ultimatum,  immediately  withdrawn.  "But  you  and 
I  don't  drive  bargains.  Even  if  you'd  let  me  work  for 
money,  I  wouldn't  let  you  fight.  I've  never  forgotten 
what  you  told  me  about  how  prizefighters  lose  their  silk. 
Well,  you're  not  going  to  lose  yours.  It's  half  my  silk, 
you  know.  And  if  you  won't  fight,  I  won't  work — there. 
And  more,  I'll  never  do  anything  you  don't  want  me  to. 
Billy." 

.  "Same  here,"  Billy  agreed.  "Though  just  the  same 
I  I'd  like  most  to  death  to  have  just  one  go  at  that  square- 
'head  Hansen."  He  smiled  with  pleasure  at  the  thought. 
"Say,  let's  forget  it  all  now,  an'  you  sing  me  'Harvest 
Days'  on  that  dinky  what-you-may-call-it. " 

When  she  had  complied,  accompanying  herself  on  the 
ukulele,  she  suggested  his  weird  "Cowboy's  Lament."  In 
some  inexplicable  way  of  love,  she  had  come  to  like  her 
husband's  one  song.  Because  he  sang  it,  she  liked  its 
inanity  and  monotonousness ;  and  most  of  all.  it  seemed 


THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON  16» 

to  her,  she  loved  his  hopeless  and  adorable  flatting  of 
every  note.  She  could  even  sing  with  him,  flatting  as  ac- 
curately and  deliciously  as  he.  Nor  did  she  undeceive  him 
in  his  sublime  faith. 

"I  guess  Bert  an'  the  rest  have  joshed  me  all  the  time,'* 
he  said. 

"You  and  I  get  along  together  with  it  fine,"  she  equi- 
vocated ;  for  in  such  matters  she  did  not  deem  the  untruth 
a  wrong. 

Spring  was  on  when  the  strike  came  in  the  railroad 
snops.  The  Sunday  before  it  was  called,  Saxon  and  Billy 
had  dinner  at  Bert 's  house.  Saxon 's  brother  came,  though 
he  had  found  it  'impossible  to  bring  Sarah,  who  refused 
to  budge  from  her  household  rut.  Bert  was  blackly  pes* 
simistic,  and  they  found  him  singing  with  sardonic  glee : 

"Nobody  loves  a  mft-yun-aire. 

Nobody  likes  his  looks. 
Nobody '11  share  his  slightest  care, 

He  classes  with  thugs  and  crooks. 
Thriftiness  has  become  a  crime, 

So  spend  everything  you  earn; 
We're  living  now  in  a  funny  time, 

When  money  is  made  to  burn." 

Mary  went  about  the  dinner  preparation,  flaunting  un- 
mistakable signals  of  rebellion;  and  Saxon,  rolling  up 
her  sleeves  and  tying  on  an  apron,  washed  the  breakfast 
dishes.  Bert  fetched  a  pitcher  of  steaming  beer  from  the 
corner  saloon,  and  the  three  men  smoked  and  talked  about 
the  coming  strike. 

"It  oughta  come  years  ago,"  was  Bert's  dictum.  "It 
can't  come  any  too  quick  now  to  suit  me,  but  it's  too 
late.  "We're  beaten  thumbs  down.  Here's  where  the  last 
of  the  Mohegans  gets  theirs,  in  the  neck,  ker-whop ! ' ' 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  Tom,  who  had  been  smoking  hia 
pipe  gravely,  began  to  counsel.  "Organized  labor's  get- 
tin'  stronger  every  day.  Why,  I  can  remember  when  there 
wasn't  any  unions  in  California.  Look  at  us  now — wages, 
an'  hours,  an'  everything." 


170  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON 

"You  talk  like  an  organizer,"  Bert  sneered,  "shovin  c^c 
bull  con  on  the  boneheads.  But  we  know  different.  Or- 
ganized wages  won't  buy  as  much  now  as  unorganized 
wages  used  to  buy.  They've  got  us  whipsawed.  Look  at 
Frisco,  the  labor  leaders  doin'  dirtier  politics  than  the 
told  parties,  pawin'  an'  squabblin  over  graft,  an'  g-oin' 
to  San  Quentin,  while — what  are  the  Frisco  carpenters 
doin'?  Let  me  tell  you  one  thing,  Tom  Brown,  if  you 
listen  to  all  you  hear  you'll  hear  that  every  Frisco  car- 
penter is  union  an'  gettin'  full  union  wages.  Do  you 
believe  it?  It's  a  damn  lie.  There  ain't  a  carpenter  that 
don't  rebate  his  wages  Saturday  night  to  the  contractor. 
An'  that's  your  buildin'  trades  in  San  Francisco,  vhile 
the  leaders  are  makin'  trips  to  Europe  on  the  earnings 
of  the  tenderloin — when  they  ain't  coughing  it  U|>  to 
the  lawyers  to  get  out  of  wearin'  stripes." 

' '  That 's  all  right, ' '  Tom  concurred.  * '  Nobody 's  de;a yin * 
it.  The  trouble  is  labor  ain't  quite  got  its  eyes  open.  It 
ought  to  play  politics,  but  the  politics  ought  to  be  the 
right  kind  " 

"Socialism,  eh?"  Bert  caught  him  up  with  scorn 
"Wouldn't  they  sell  us  out  just  as  the  Ruefs  and  Schmidt* 
have?" 

"Get  men  that  are  honest,"  Billy  said.  "That's  the 

whole  trouble.  Not  that  I  stand  for  socialism.  I  dcn't. 

All  our  folks  was  a  long  time  in  America,  an'  I  for  one 
won't  stand  for  a  lot  of  fat  Germans  an'  greasy  Russian 
Jews  tellin'  me  how  to  run  my  country  when  they  can't 
speak  English  yet." 

11  Your  country !"  Bert  cried.  "Why,  you  bonehead.  you 
ain't  got  a  country.  That's  a  fairy  story  the  grafters 
shove  at  you  every  time  they  want  to  rob  you  some  more." 

"But  don't  vote  for  the  grafters,"  Billy  contended. 
"If  we  selected  honest  men  we'd  get  honest  treatment." 

"I  wish  you'd  come  to  some  of  our  meetings,  Billy," 
Tom  said  wistfully.  "If  you  would,  you'd  get  your  eyes 
open  an'  vote  the  socialist  ticket  next  election." 

"Not  on  your  life,"  Billy  declined.     "When  you  catch 


THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON  17* 

me  in  a  socialist  meeting '11  be  when  they  can  talk  like 
white  men." 

Bert  was  humming: 

"We're  living  now  in  a  funny  time, 
When  money  is  made  to  burn." 

Mary  was  too  angry  with  her  husband,  because  of  the 
impending  strike  and  his  incendiary  utterances,  to  hold 
conversation  with  Saxon,  and  the  latter,  bepuzzled,  listened 
to  the  conflicting  opinions  of  the  men. 

"Where  are  we  at?"  she  asked  them,  with  a  merriness 
that  concealed  her  anxiety  at  heart. 

"We  ain't  at,"  Bert  snarled.    "We're  gone." 

"But  meat  and  oil  have  gone  up  again,"  she  chafed. 
"And  Billy's  wages  have  been  cut,  and  the  shop  men's 
were  cut  last  year.  Something  must  be  done." 

' '  The  only  thing  to  do  is  fight  like  hell, ' '  Bert  answered. 
" Fight,  an'  go  down  fightin'.  That's  all.  We're  licked 
anyhow,  but  we  can  have  a  last  run  for  our  money." 

"That's  no  way  to  talk,"  Tom  rebuked. 

"The  time  for  talkin'  's  past,  old  cock.  The  time  for 
€ghtin'  's  come." 

"A  hell  of  a  chance  you'd  have  against  regular  troops 
and  machine  guns,"  Billy  retorted. 

"Oh,  not  that  way.  There's  such  things  as  greasy  sticks 
that  go  up  with  a  loud  noise  and  leave  holes.  There's  such 
things  as  emery  powder " 

' '  Oh,  ho ! "  Mary  burst  out  upon  him,  arms  akimbo.  * '  So 
that's  what  it  means.  That's  what  the  emery  in  your  vest 
:  pocket  meant." 

Her  husband  ignored  her.  Tom  smoked  with  a  troubled 
air.  Billy  was  hurt.  It  showed  plainly  in  his  face. 

"You  ain't  ben  doin'  that,  Bert?"  he  asked,  his  manner 
showing  his  expectancy  of  his  friend's  denial. 

' '  Sure  thing,  if  you  want  to  know.  I  'd  see  'm  all  in  hell 
if  I  could,  before  I  go." 

"Pie's  a  bloody-minded  anarchist,"  Mary  complained 
"Men  like  him  killed  McKinley,  and  Garfield,  an' — an' — 


172  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

an*  all  the  rest.  He'll  be  hung.  You'll  see.  Mark  my 
words.  I'm  glad  there's  no  children  in  sight,  that's  all." 

' '  It 's  hot  air, ' '  Billy  comforted  her. 

"He's  just  teasing  you,"  Saxon  soothed.  *'He  always 
was  a  josher." 

But  Mary  shook  her  head. 

"I  know.  I  hear  him  talkin'  in  his  sleep,  fle  swears 
and  curses  something  awful,  an'  grits  his  teeth.  Listen  to 
him  now." 

Bert,  his  handsome  face  bitter  and  devil-may-care,  had 
tilted  his  chair  back  against  the  wall  and  was  singing : 

"Nobody  loves  a  mil-jam- aire, 

Nobody  likes  his  looks, 
Nobody '11  share  his  slightest  care, 
He  classes  with  thugs  and  crooks." 

Tom  was  saying  something  about  reasonableness  and 
justice,  and  Bert  ceased  from  singing  to  catch  him  up. 

"Justice,  eh?  Another  pipe-dream.  I'll  show  you 
where  the  working  class  gets  justice.  You  remember 
Forbes — J.  Alliston  Forbes — wrecked  the  Alta  California 
Trust  Company  an'  salted  down  two  cold  millions.  I  saw 
him  yesterday,  in  a  big  hell-bent  automobile.  What'd  he 
get?  Eight  years'  sentence.  How  long  did  he  serve? 
Less'n  two  years.  Pardoned  out  on  account  of  ill  health. 
IU  hell!  We'll  be  dead  an'  rotten  before  he  kicks  the 
bucket.  Here.  Look  out  this  window.  You  see  the  back 
of  that  house  with  the  broken  porch  rail.  Mrs.  Danaker 
lives  there.  She  takes  in  washin'.  Her  old  man  was  killed 
on  the  railroad.  Nitsky  on  damages — contributory  neg- 
ligence, or  fellow-servant-something-or-other  flimflam. 
That's  what  the  courts  handed  her.  Her  boy,  Archie,  was 
sixteen.  He  was  on  the  road,  a  regular  road-kid.  He  blew 
into  Fresno  an'  rolled  a  drunk.  Do  you  want  to  know  how 
much  he  got?  Two  dollars  and  eighty  cents.  Get  that? 

Two-eighty.  And  what  did  the  alfalfa  judge  hand'm? 

Fifty  years.  He's  served  eight  of  it  already  in  San  Quen- 
tin.  And  he'll  go  on  serving  it  till  he  croaks.  Mrs.  Dan- 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     17$ 

ake*  says  he's  bad  with  consumption — caught  it  inside,  but 
she  ain't  got  the  pull  to  get'm  pardoned.  Archie  the  Kid 
steals  two  dollars  an'  eighty  cents  from  a  drunk  and  gets 
fifty  years.  J.  Alliston  Forbes  sticks  up  the  Alta  Trust 
for  two  millions  an'  gets  less'n  two  years.  Who's  country 
is  this  anyway?  Yourn  an'  Archie  the  Kid's?  Guess 
again.  It's  J.  Alliston  Forbes' Oh: 

"Nobody  likes  a  mil-yun-aire, 

Nobody  likes  his  looks, 
Nobody '11  share  his  slightest  care, 
He  classes  with  thugs  and  crooks." 

Mary,  at  the  sink,  where  Saxon  was  just  finishing  the 
last  dish,  untied  Saxon's  apron  and  kissed  her  with  the 
sympathy  that  women  alone  feel  for  each  other  under  the 
shadow  of  maternity. 

"Now  you  sit  down,  dear.  You  mustn't  tire  yourself, 
and  it's  a  long  way  to  go  yet.  I'll  get  your  sewing  for 
you,  and  you  can  listen  to  the  men  talk.  But  don't  listen 
to  Bert.  He's  crazy." 

Saxon  sewed  and  listened,  and  Bert's  face  grew  bleak 
and  bitter  as  he  contemplated  the  baby  clothes  in  her  lap. 

' '  There  you  go, ' '  he  blurted  out,  ' '  bringin '  kids  into  the 
world  when  you  ain't  got  any  guarantee  you  can  feed 
'em." 

"You  must  a-had  a  souse  last  night,"  Tom  grinned. 

Bert  shook  his  head. 

"Aw,  what's  the  use  of  gettin'  grouched?"  Billy 
cheered.  "It's  a  pretty  good  country." 

"It  was  a  pretty  good  country,"  Bert  replied,  "when 
'  we  was  all  Mohegans.  But  not  now.  We're  jiggerooed. 
We  're  hornswoggled.  We  're  backed  to  a  standstill.  We  're 
double-crossed  to  a  fare-you-well.  My  folks  fought  for 
this  country.  So  did  yourn,  all  of  you.  We  freed  the 
piggers,  killed  the  Indians,  an'  starved,  an'  froze,  an' 
sweat,  an'  fought.  This  land  looked  good  to  us.  We 
cleared  it,  an'  broke  it,  an'  made  the  roads,  an'  built  the 
cities.  And  there  was  plenty  for  everybody.  And  we 


174  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

went  on  fightin'  for  it.  I  had  two  uncles  killed  at  Qettys< 
burg.  All  of  us  was  mixed  up  in  that  war.  Listen  to 
Saxon  talk  any  time  what  her  folks  went  through  to  get 
out  here  an'  get  ranches,  an'  horses,  an'  cattle,  an'  every- 
thing. And  they  got  'em.  All  our  folks  got  'em,  Mary's, 

"And  if  they'd  ben  ^mart  they'd  a-held  on  to  them," 
she  interpolated. 

"Sure  thing,"  Bert  continued.  "That's  the  very  point. 
We're  the  losers.  We've  ben  robbed.  We  couldn't  mark 
cards,  deal  from  the  bottom,  an'  ring  in  cold  decks  like  the 
others.  We're  the  white  folks  that  failed.  You  see,  times 
changed,  and  there  was  two  kinds  of  us,  the  lions  and  the 
plugs.  The  plugs  only  worked,  the  lions  only  gobbled, 
They  gobbled  the  farms,  the  mines,  the  factories,  an'  row 
they've  gobbled  the  government.  We're  the  white  folks  an* 
the  children  of  white  folks,  that  was  too  busy  being  good 
to  be  smart.  We're  the  white  folks  that  lost  out.  We're 
the  ones  that's  ben  skinned.  D'ye  get  me?" 

' '  You  'd  make  a  good  soap-boxer, ' '  Tom  commended,  ' '  if 
only  you'd  get  the  kinks  straightened  out  in  your  reason- 
ing." 

"It  sounds  all  right,  Bert,"  BiUy  said,  "only  it  ain't. 
Any  man  can  get  rich  to-day " 

"Or  be  president  of  the  United  States,"  Bert  snapped. 
"Sure  thing — if  he's  got  it  in  him.  Just  the  same  I  ain't 
heard  you  makin'  a  noise  like  a  millionaire  or  a  president. 
Why?  You  ain't  got  it  in  you.  You're  a  bonehead.  A 
plug.  That's  why.  Skiddoo  for  you.  Skiddoo  for  all  of 
us." 

At  the  table,  while  they  ate,  Tom  talked  of  the  joys  of 
farm-life  he  had  known  as  a  boy  and  as  a  young  man,  and 
confided  that  it  was  his  dream  to  go  and  take  up  govern- 
ment land  somewhere  as  his  people  had  done  before  him 
Unfortunately,  as  he  explained,  Sarah  was  set,  so  that  the 
dream  must  remain  a  dream. 

"It's  all  in  the  game,"  Billy  sighed.  "It's  played  tv 
rules.  Some  one  has  to  get  knocked  out,  I  suppose." 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON  17fl 

A  little  later,  while  Bert  was  off  on  a  fresh  diatribe, 
Billy  became  aware  that  he  was  making  comparisons.  This 
house  was  not  like  his  house.  Here  was  no  satisfying  at- 
mosphere. Things  seemed  to  run  with  a  jar.  He  recol- 
lected that  when  they  arrived  the  breakfast  dishes  had 
not  yet  been  washed.  With  a  man's  general  obliviousness 
of  household  affairs,  he  had  not  noted  details;  yet  it  had 
been  borne  in  on  him,  all  morning,  in  a  myriad  ways,  that 
Mary  was  not  the  housekeeper  Saxon  was.  He  glanced 
proudly  across  at  her,  and  felt  the  spur  of  an  impulse  to 
leave  his  seat,  go  around,  and  embrace  her.  She  was  a 
wife.  He  remembered  her  dainty  undergarmenting,  and 
on  the  instant,  into  his  brain,  leaped  the  image  of  her  so 
appareled,  only  to  be  shattered  by  Bert. 

"Hey,  Bill,  you  seem  to  think  I've  got  a  grouch.  Sure 
thing.  I  have.  You  ain't  had  my  experiences.  You've 
always  done  teamin'  an'  pulled  down  easy  money  prize- 
fightin'.  You  ain't  known  hard  times.  You  ain't  ben 
through  strikes.  You  ain't  had  to  take  care  of  an  old 
mother  an'  swallow  dirt  on  her  account.  It  wasn't  until 
after  she  died  that  I  could  rip  loose  an'  take  or  leave  aa 
I  felt  like  it. 

"Take  that  time  I  tackled  the  Niles  Electric  an'  see 
what  a  work-plug  gets  handed  out  to  him.  The  Head 
Cheese  sizes  me  up,  pumps  me  a  lot  of  questions,  an'  gives 
me  an  application  blank.  I  make  it  out,  payin'  a  dollar 
to  a  doctor  they  sent  me  to  for  a  health  certificate.  Then 
I  got  to  go  to  a  picture  garage  an '  get  my  mug  taken— 
for  the  Niles  Electric  rogues'  gallery.  And  I  cough  up 
another  dollar  for  the  mug.  The  Head  Squirt  takes  the 
blank,  the  health  certificate,  and  the  mug,  an'  fires  more 

questions.  Did  I  belong  to  a  labor  union f  ME?  Of 

course  I  told'm  the  truth  I  guess  nit.  I  needed  the  job. 
The  grocery  wouldn't  give  me  any  more  tick,  and  there 
was  my  mother. 

"Huh,  thinks  I,  here's  where  I'm  a  real  carman.  Back 
platform  for  me,  where  I  can  pick  up  the  fancy  skirts. 
Nitsky.  Two  dollars,  please.  Me — mv  two  dollars.  All 


176  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE  MOON 

for  a  pewter  badge.  Then  there  was  the  uniform — nine- 
teen fifty,  and  get  it  anywhere  else  for  fifteen.  Only  that 
was  to  be  paid  out  of  my  first  month.  And  then  five 
dollars  in  change  in  my  pocket,  my  own  money.  That  was 

the  rule.  1  borrowed  that  five  from  Tom  Donovan, 

the  policeman.  Then  what?  They  worked  me  for  two 
weeks  without  pay,  breakin'  me  in." 

"Did  you  pick  up  any  fancy  skirts?"  Saxon  queried 
teasingly. 

Bert  shook  his  head  glumly. 

"I  only  worked  a  month.  Then  we  organized,  and  they 
busted  our  union  higher 'n  a  kite." 

"And  you  boobs  in  the  shops  will  be  busted  the  same 
way  if  you  go  out  on  strike,"  Mary  informed  him. 

"That's  what  I've  ben  tellin'  you  all  along,"  Bert  re- 
plied. "We  ain't  got  a  chance  to  win." 

"Then  why  go  out?"  was  Saxon's  question. 

He  looked  at  her  with  lack-luster  eyes  for  a  moment 
then  answered: 

"Why  did  my  two  uncles  get  killed  at  Gettysburg?'* 


CHAPTER  VIII 

SAXON  went  about  her  housework  greatly  troubled.  She 
ao  longer  devoted  herself  to  the  making  of  pretties.  The 
materials  cost  money,  and  she  did  not  dare.  Bert's  thrust 
had  sunk  home.  It  remained  in  her  quivering  conscious- 
ness like  a  shaft  of  steel  that  ever  turned  and  rankled. 
She  and  Billy  were  responsible  for  this  coming  young  life. 
Could  they  be  sure,  after  all,  that  they  could  adequately 
feed  and  clothe  it  and  prepare  it  for  its  way  in  the  world  ? 
Where  was  the  guaranty?  She  remembered,  dimly,  the 
blight  of  hard  times  in  the  past,  and  the  plaints  of  fathers 
and  mothers  in  those  days  returned  to  her  with  a  new 
significance.  Almost  could  she  understand  Sarah's  chronic 
complaining. 

Hard  times  were  already  in  the  neighborhood,  where 
lived  the  families  of  the  shopmen  who  had  gone  out  on 
strike.  Among  the  small  storekeepers,  Saxon,  in  the  course 
of  the  daily  marketing,  could  sense  the  air  of  despondency. 
Light  and  geniality  seemed  to  have  vanished.  Gloom  per« 
vaded  everywhere.  The  mothers  of  the  children  that 
played  in  the  stree'ts  showed  the  gloom  plainly  in  their 
faces.  When  they  gossiped  in  the  evenings,  over  front 
gates  and  on  door  stoops,  their  voices  were  subdued  and 
less  of  laughter  rang  out. 

Mary  Donahue,  who  had  taken  three  pints  from  the 
milkman,  now  took  one  pint.  There  were  no  more  family 
trips  to  the  moving  picture  shows.  Scrap-meat  was  harder 
to  get  from  the  butcher.  Nora  Delaney,  in  the  third  house, 
no  longer  bought  fresh  fish  for  Friday.  Salted  codfish, 
not  of  the  best  quality,  was  now  on  her  table.  The  sturdy 
children  that  ran  out  upon  the  street  between  meals  with 
huge  slices  of  breav;1  and  butter  and  sugar  now  came  out 
177 


*78  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

with  no  sugar  and  with  thinner  slices  spread  more  thinly 
with  butter.  The  very  custom  was  dying  out,  and  some 
children  already  had  desisted  from  piecing  between  meals. 

Everywhere  was  manifest  a  pinching  and  scraping,  a 
tightening  and  shortening  down  of  expenditure.  And 
everywhere  was  more  irritation.  Women  became  angered 
with  one  another,  and  with  the  children,  more  quickly  than 
of  yore;  and  Saxon  knew  that  Bert  and  Mary  bickeivl 
incessantly. 

"If  she'd  only  realize  I've  got  troubles  of  my  own," 
Bert  complained  to  Saxon. 

She  looked  at  him  closely,  and  felt  fear  for  him  in  a 
vague,  numb  way.  His  black  eyes  seemed  to  burn  with  a 
continuous  madness.  The  brown  face  was  leaner,  the  skin 
drawn  tightly  across  the  cheekbones.  A  slight  twist  had 
come  to  the  mouth,  which  seemed  frozen  into  bitterness. 
The  very  carriage  of  his  body  and  the  way  he  wore  his 
hat  advertised  a  recklessness  more  intense  than  had  been 
his  in  the  past. 

Sometimes,  in  the  long  afternoons,  sitting  by  the  window 
with  idle  hands,  she  caught  herself  reconstructing  in  her 
vision  that  folk-migration  of  her  people  across  the  plains 
and  mountains  and  deserts  to  the  sunset  land  by  the  West- 
ern  sea.  And  often  she  found  herself  dreaming  of  the 
arcadian  days  of  her  people,  when  they  had  not  lived  in 
cities  nor  been  vexed  with  labor  unions  and  employers' 
associations.  She  would  remember  the  old  people's  tales 
of  self-sufficingness,  when  they  shot  or  raised  their  own 
meat,  grew  their  own  vegetables,  were  their  own  black- 
smiths and  carpenters,  made  their  own  shoes — yes,  and 
spun  the  cloth  of  the  clothes  they  wore.  And  something 
of  the  wistfulness  in  Tom's  face  she  could  see  as  she 
recollected  it  when  he  talked  of  his  dream  of  taking  up 
government  land. 

A  farmer's  life  must  be  fine,  she  thought.  "Why  was  it 
that  people  had  to  live  in  cities  ?  Why  had  times  changed  ? 
If  there  had  been  enough  in  the  old  days,  why  was  there 
not  enough  now?  Why  was  it  necessary  for  men  to  quar- 


THE    VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON  179' 

rel  and  jangle,  and  strike  and  fight,  all  about  the  matter 
of  getting  work?  AVhy  wasn't  there  work  for  all? 
Only  that  morning,  and  she  shuddered  with  the  recol- 
lection, she  had  seen  two  scabs,  on  their  way  to  work, 
beaten  up  by  the  strikers,  by  men  she  knew  by  sight,  and 
some  by  name,  who  lived  in  the  neighborhood.  It  had  hap- 
pened directly  across  the  street.  It  had  been  cruel,  terrible 
-a  dozen  men  on  two.  The  children  had  begun  it  by 
throwing  rocks  at  the  scabs  and  cursing  them  in  ways 
children  should  not  know.  Policemen  had  run  upon  the 
scene  with  drawn  revolvers,  and  the  strikers  had  retreated 
into  the  houses  and  through  the  narrow  alleys  between 
the  houses.  One  of  the  scabs,  unconscious,  had  been  car- 
ried away  in  an  ambulance;  the  other,  assisted  by  special 
railroad  police,  had  been  taken  away  to  the  shops.  At 
him,  Mary  Donahue,  standing  on  her  front  stoop,  her  child 
in  her  arms,  had  hurled  such  vile  abuse  that  it  had  brought 
the  blush  of  shame  to  Saxon's  cheeks.  On  the  stoop  of  th» 
house  on  the  other  side,  Saxon  had  noted  Mercedes,  in  the 
height  of  the  beating  up,  looking  on  with  a  queer  smile. 
She  had  seemed  very  eager  to  witness,  her  nostrils  dilated 
and  swelling  like  the  beat  of  pulses  as  she  watched.  It 
Lad  struck  Saxon  at  the  time  that  the  old  woman  was 
quite  unalarmed  and  only  curious  to  see. 

To  Mercedes,  who  was  so  wise  in  love,  Saxon  went  for 
explanation  of  what  was  the  matter  with  the  world.  But 
the  old  woman's  wisdom  in  affairs  industrial  and  economic 
was  cryptic  and  unpalatable. 

"La  la,  my  dear,  it  is  so  simple.  Most  men  are  born 
stupid.  They  are  the  slaves.  A  few  are  born  clever. 
They  are  the  masters.  God  made  men  so,  I  suppose." 

"Then  how  about  God  and  that  terrible  beating  across 
the  street  this  morning?" 

"I'm  afraid  he  was  not  interested,"  Mercedes  smiled, 
"I  doubt  he  even  knows  that  it  happened." 

"I  was  frightened  to  death,"  Saxon  declared.  "I  was 
made  sick  by  it.  And  yet  you — I  saw  you — you  looked  on 
as  cool  as  you  please,  as  if  it  was  a  show." 


»!80  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON 

"It  was  a  show,  my  dear." 

"Oh,  how  could  you?" 

"La  la,  I  have  seen  men  killed.  It  is  nothing  strange. 
All  men  die.  The  stupid  ones  die  like  oxen,  they  know 
not  why.  It  is  quite  funny  to  see.  They  strike  each  other 
with  fists  and  clubs,  and  break  each  other's  heads.  It  i? 
gross.  They  are  like  a  lot  of  animals.  They  are  like  dog! 
wrangling  over  bones.  Jobs  are  bones,  you  know.  Now,1 
if  they  fought  for  women,  or  ideas,  or  bars  of  gold,  or 
fabulous  diamonds,  it  would  be  splendid.  But  no ;  they 
are  only  hungry,  and  fight  over  scraps  for  their  stomach." 

' '  Oh,  if  I  could  only  understand ! ' '  Saxon  murmured, 
her  hands  tightly  clasped  in  anguish  of  incomprehension 
and  vital  need  to  know. 

"There  is  nothing  to  understand.  It  is  clear  as  print. 
There  have  always  been  the  stupid  and  the  clever,  the 
slave  and  the  master,  the  peasant  and  the  prince.  There 
always  will  be." 

"But  why?" 

"Why  is  a  peasant  a  peasant,  my  dear?  Because  he  is 
a  peasant.  Why  is  a  flea  a  flea?" 

Saxon  tossed  her  head  fretfully. 

"Oh,  but  my  dear,  I  have  answered.  The  philosophies 
of  the  world  can  give  no  better  answer.  Why  do  you  like 
your  man  for  a  husband  rather  than  any  other  man?  Be. 
cause  you  like  him  that  way,  that  is  all.  Why  do  you 
like?  Because  you  like.  Why  does  fire  burn  and  frost 
bite?  Why  are  there  clever  men  a!nd  stupid  men?  mas- 
ters and  slaves?  employers  and  workingmen?  Whj 
is  black  black?  Answer  that  and  you  answer  every- 
thing." 

"But  it  is  not  right  that  men  should  go  hungry  and 
without  work  when  they  want  to  work  if  only  they  can 
get  a  square  deal,"  Saxon  protested. 

"Oh,  but  it  is  right,  just  as  it  is  right  that  stone  wont 
burn  like  wood,  that  sea  sand  isn't  sugar,  that  thorns 
•orick,  that  water  is  wet,  that  smoke  rises,  that  things  fall 
•lown  and  not  up." 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON  l8i 

But  such  doctrine  of  reality  made  no  impression  on 
Saxon.  Frankly,  she  could  not  comprehend.  It  seemed 
like  so  much  nonsense. 

"Then  we  have  no  liberty  and  independence,"  she  cried 
passionately.  "One  man  is  not  as  good  as  another.  My 
child  has  not  the  right  to  live  that  a  rich  mother's  child 
has. ' ' 

"Certainly  not,"  Mercedes  answered. 

"Yet  all  my  people  fought  for  these  things,"  Saxon 
urged,  remembering  her  school  history  and  the  sword  of 
her  father. 

"Democracy — the  dream  of  the  stupid  peoples.  Oh,  la 
la,  my  dear,  democracy  is  a  lie,  an  enchantment  to  keep 
the  work  brutes  content,  just  as  religion  used  to  keep  them 
content.  When  they  groaned  in  their  misery  and  toil,  they 
were  persuaded  to  keep  on  in  their  misery  and  toil  by 
pretty  tales  of  a  land  beyond  the  skies  where  they  would 
live  famously  and  fat  while  the  clever  ones  roasted  in  ever- 
lasting fire.  Ah,  how  the  clever  ones  must  have  chuckled ! 
And  when  that  lie  wore  out,  and  democracy  was  dreamed, 
the  clever  ones  saw  to  it  that  it  should  be  in  truth  a 
dream,  nothing  but  a  dream.  The  world  belongs  to  the 
great  and  clever." 

"But  you  are  of  the  working  people,"  Saxon  charged. 

The  old  woman  drew  herself  up,  and  almost  was 
angry. 

"I?  Of  the  working  people?  My  dear,  because  I  had 
misfortune  with  moneys  invested,  because  I  am  old  and 
can  no  longer  win  the  brave  young  men,  because  I  have 
outlived  the  men  of  my  youth  and  there  is  no  one  to  go  to, 
because  I  live  here  in  the  ghetto  with  Barry  Higgins  and 
prepare  to  die — why,  my  dear,  I  was  born  with  the  mas- 
ters, and  have  trod  all  my  days  on  the  necks  of  the  stupid. 
I  have  drunk  rare  wines  and  sat  at  feasts  that  would  have 
supported  this  neighborhood  for  a  lifetime.  Dick  Golden 
and  I — it  was  Dickie's  money,  but  I  could  have  had  it — 
Dick  Golden  and  I  dropped  four  hundred  thousand  franca 
in  a  week's  play  at  Monte  Carlo.  He  was  a  Jew,  but  he 


182  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

was  a  spender.  In  India  I  have  worn  jewels  that  could 
have  saved  the  lives  of  ten  thousand  families  dying  before 
my  eyes." 

' '  You  saw  them  die  ?  .  .  .  and  did  nothing  ? ' '  Saxon 
asked  aghast. 

"I  kept  my  jewels — la  la,  and  was  robbed  of  them  by 
a  brute  of  a  Russian  officer  within  the  year." 

"And  you  let  them  die,"  Saxon  reiterated. 

"They  were  cheap  spawn.  They  fester  and  multiply 
like  maggots.  They  meant  nothing — nothing,  my  dear, 
nothing.  No  more  than  your  work  people  mean  here, 
whose  crowning  stupidity  is  their  continuing  to  beget  more 
stupid  spawn  for  the  slavery  of  the  masters." 

So  it  was  that  while  Saxon  could  get  little  glimmering 
of  common  sense  from  others,  from  the  terrible  old  woman 
she  got  none  at  all.  Nor  could  Saxon  bring  herself  to 
believe  much  of  what  she  considered  Mercedes'  romancing. 
As  the  weeks  passed,  the  strike  in  the  railroad  shops  grew 
bitter  and  deadly.  Billy  shook  his  head  and  confessed  his 
inability  to  make  head  or  tail  of  the  troubles  that  were 
looming  on  the  labor  horizon. 

"I  don't  get  the  hang  of  it,"  he  told  Saxon.  "It's  a 
mix-up.  It's  like  a  roughhouse  with  the  lights  out.  Look 
at  us  teamsters.  Here  we  are,  the  talk  just  starting  of 
going  out  on  sympathetic  strike  for  the  mill-workers. 
They've  ben  out  a  week,  most  of  their  places  is  filled,  an' 
if  us  teamsters  keep  on  haulin'  the  mill- work  the  strike's 
lost." 

"Yet  you  didn't  consider  striking  for  yourselves  when! 
your  wages  were  cut,"  Saxon  said  with  a  frown. 

"Oh,  we  wasn't  in  position  then.  But  now  the  Frisco 
teamsters  and  the  whole  Frisco  Water  Front  Confederation 
is  liable  to  back  us  up.  Anyway,  we're  just  talkin'  about 
it,  that's  all.  But  if  we  do  go  out,  we'll  try  to  get  back 
that  ten  per  cent,  cut." 

"It's  rotten  politics,"  he  said  another  time.  "Every- 
body's rotten.  If  we'd  only  wise  up  and  agree  to  pick  out 
Honest  men n 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     183 

"But  if  you,  and  Bert,  and  Tom  can't  agree,  how  do 
you  expect  all  the  rest  to  agree?"  Saxon  asked. 

"It  gets  me,"  he  admitted.  "It's  enough  to  give  a 
guy  the  willies  thinkin'  about  it.  And  yet  it's  plain  as 
the  nose  on  your  face.  Get  honest  men  for  polities,  an' 
the  whole  thing's  straightened  out.  Honest  men'd  make 
honest  laws,  an'  then  honest  men'd  get  their  dues.  But 
Bert  wants  to  smash  things,  an'  Tom  smokes  his  pipe  and 
dreams  pipe  dreams  about  by  an'  by  when  everybody 
votes  the  way  he  thinks.  But  this  by  an'  by  ain't  the 
point.  We  want  things  now.  Tom  says  we  can't  get  them 
now,  an'  Bert  says  we  ain't  never  goin'  to  get  them. 
What  can  a  fellow  do  when  everybody's  of  different 
minds?  Look  at  the  socialists  themselves.  They're  always 
disagreeing,  splittin'  up,  an'  firin'  each  other  out  of  the 
party.  The  whole  thing's  bughouse,  that's  what,  an*  I 
almost  get  dippy  myself  thinkin'  about  it.  The  point  T 
can't  get  out  of  my  mind  is  that  we  want  things  now." 

He  broke  off  abruptly  and  stared  at  Saxon. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  his  voice  husky  with  anxiety 
"You  ain't  sick  ...  or  ...  or  anything?" 

One  hand  she  had  pressed  to  her  heart;  but  the  startle* 
and  fright  in  her  eyes  was  changing  into  a  pleased  intent- 
ness,  while  on  her  mouth  was  a  little  mysterious  smile. 
She  seemed  oblivious  to  her  husband,  as  if  listening  to 
some  message  from  afar  and  not  for  his  ears.  Then  won- 
der and  joy  transfused  her  face,  and  she  looked  at  Billy, 
'and  her  hand  went  out  to  his. 

"It's  life,"  she  whispered.  "I  felt  life.  I  am  so  glad, 
so  glad." 

The  next  evening  when  Billy  came  home  from  work, 
Saxon  caused  him  to  know  and  undertake  more  of  the 
responsibilities  of  fatherhood. 

"I've  been  thinking  it  over,  Billy,"  she  began,  "and 
I'm  such  a  healthy,  strong  woman  that  it  won't  have  to 
be  very  expensive.  There's  Martha  Skelton — she's  a  good 
midwife. ' ' 

But  Billy  shook  his  head. 


184  THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

"Nothin'  doin'  in  that  line,  Saxon.  You're  goin'  to 
have  Doc  Hentley.  He's  Bill  Murphy's  doc,  an'  Bill 
swears  by  him.  He's  an  old  cuss,  but  he's  a  wooz. " 

' '  She  confined  Maggie  Donahue, ' '  Saxon  argued ;  ' '  and 
look  at  her  and  her  baby." 

"Well,  she  won't  confine  you — not  so  as  you  can  notice 
it." 

' '  But  the  doctor  will  charge  twenty  dollars, ' '  Saxon  pur- 
sued, "and  make  me  get  a  nurse  because  I  haven't  any 
womenfolk  to  come  in.  But  Martha  Skelton  would  do 
everything,  and  it  would  be  so  much  cheaper." 

But  Billy  gathered  her  tenderly  in  his  arms  and  laid 
down  the  law. 

"Listen  to  me,  little  wife.  The  Roberts  family  ain't  on 
the  cheap.  Never  forget  that.  You've  gotta  have  the  baby. 
That's  your  business,  an'  it's  enough  for  you.  My  business 
is  to  get  the  money  an'  take  care  of  you.  An'  the  best 
ain't  none  too  good  for  you.  Why,  I  wouldn't  run  the 
chance  of  the  teeniest  accident  happenin'  to  you  for  a 
million  dollars.  It's  you  that  counts.  An'  dollars  is  dirt. 
Maybe  you  think  I  like  that  kid  some.  I  do.  Why,  I  can't 
get  him  outa  my  head.  I'm  thinkin'  about 'm  all  day  long. 
If  I  get  fired,  it  '11  be  his  fault.  I  'm  clean  dotty  over  him. 
But  just  the  same,  Saxon,  honest  to  God,  before  I'd  havo 
anything  happen  to  you,  break  your  little  finger,  even,  I'd 
see  him  dead  an'  buried  first.  That'll  give  you  some- 
thing of  an  idea  what  you  mean  to  me. 

"Why,  Saxon,  I  had  the  idea  that  when  folks  got  mar- 
ried they  just  settled  down,  and  after  a  while  their  busi- 
ness was  to  get  along  with  each  other.  Maybe  it's  the 
way  it  is  with  other  people;  but  it  ain't  that  way  with 
you  an'  me.  I  love  you  more'n  more  every  day.  Right 
now  I  love  you  more'n  when  I  began  talkin'  to  you  five 
minutes  ago.  An'  you  won't  have  to  get  a  nurse.  Doe 
Hentley '11  come  every  day,  an'  Mary '11  come  in  an'  do  the 
housework,  an'  take  care  of  you  an'  all  that,  just  as  you'll 
do  for  her  if  she  ever  needs  it. ' ' 

As  the  days  and  weeks  passed,  Saxon  was  possessed  by  a 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     185 

conscious  feeling  of  proud  motherhood  in  her  swelling 
breasts.  So  essentially  a  normal  woman  was  she,  that 
motherhood  was  a  satisfying  and  passionate  happiness.  It 
was  true  that  she  had  her  moments  of  apprehension,  but 
they  were  so  momentary  and  faint  that  they  tended,  if 
anything,  to  give  zest  to  her  happiness. 

Only  one  thing  troubled  her,  and  that  was  the  puzzling 
and  perilous  situation  of  labor  which  no  one  seemed  to 
'understand,  herself  least  of  all. 

"They're  always  talking  about  how  much  more  is  made 
by  machinery  than  by  the  old  ways, ' '  she  told  her  brother 
Tom.  "Then,  with  all  the  machinery  we've  got  now,  why 
don't  we  get  more?" 

"Now  you're  talkin',"  he  answered.  "It  wouldn't  take 
you  long  to  understand  socialism." 

But  Saxon  had  a  mind  to  the  immediate  need  of  things. 

"Tom,  how  long  have  you  been  a  socialist?" 

"Eight  years." 

"And  you  haven't  got  anything  by  it?" 

"But  we  will    ...    in  time." 

"At  that  rate  you  11  be  dead  first,"  she  challenged. 

Tom  sighed. 

"I'm  afraid  so.    Things  move  so  slow." 

Again  he  sighed.  She  noted  the  weary,  patient  look  in 
kis  face,  the  bent  shoulders,  the  labor-gnarled  hands,  and 
it  all  seemed  to  symbolize  the  futility  of  his  social  creed 


CHAPTER  IX 

IT  began  quietly,  as  the  fateful  unexpected  so  often 
begins.  Children,  of  all  ages  and  sizes,  were  playing  in 
the  street,  and  Saxon,  by  the  open  front  window,  was 
watching  them  and  dreaming  day  dreams  of  her  child 
soon  to  be.  The  sunshine  mellowed  peacefully  down,  and 
a  light  wind  from  the  bay  cooled  the  air  and  gave  to  it  a 
tang  of  salt.  One  of  the  children  pointed  up  Pine  Street 
toward  Seventh.  All  the  children  ceased  playing,  and 
stared  and  pointed.  They  formed  into  groups,  the  larger 
boys,  of  from  ten  to  twelve,  by  themselves,  the  older  girls 
anxiously  clutching  the  small  children  by  the  hands  or 
gathering  them  into  their  arms. 

Saxon  could  not  see  the  cause  of  all  this,  but  she  could 
guess  when  she  saw  the  larger  boys  rush  to  the  gutter, 
pick  up  stones,  and  sneak  into  the  alleys  between  the 
houses.  Smaller  boys  tried  to  imitate  them.  The  girls, 
dragging  the  tots  by  the  arms,  banged  gates  and  clattered 
up  the  front  steps  of  the  small  houses.  The  doors  slammed 
behind  them,  and  the  street  was  deserted,  though  here  and 
there  front  shades  were  drawn  aside  so  that  anxious-faced 
women  might  peer  forth.  Saxon  heard  the  uptown  train 
puffing  and  snorting  as  it  pulled  out  from  Center  Street. 
Then,  from  the  direction  of  Seventh,  came  a  hoarse, 
throaty  manroar.  Still,  she  could  see  nothing,  and  she 
remembered  Mercedes  Higgins'  words:  "They  are  like 
dogs  wrangling  over  bones.  Jobs  are  bones,  you  know." 

The  roar  came  closer,  and  Saxon,  leaning  out,  saw  a 
dozen  scabs,  conveyed  by  as  many  special  police  and 
Pinkertons,  coming  down  the  sidewalk  on  her  side  of  the 
street.  They  came  compactly,  as  if  with  discipline,  while 
behind,  disorderly,  yelling  confusedly,  stooping  to  pick  up 
IML 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      187 

rocks,  were  seventy-five  or  a  hundred  of  the  striking  shop- 
men. Saxon  discovered  herself  trembling  with  apprehen- 
sion, knew  that  she  must  not,  and  controlled  herself.  She 
was  helped  in  this  by  the  conduct  of  Mercedes  Higgins. 
The  old  woman  came  out  of  her  front  door,  dragging  a 
I  chair,  on  which  she  coolly  seated  herself  on  the  tiny  stoop 
'at  the  top  of  the  steps. 

In  the  hands  of  the  special  police  were  clubs.  The 
Pinkertons  carried  no  visible  weapons.  The  strikers,  urg- 
ing on  from  behind,  seemed  content  with  yelling  their  rage 
and  threats,  and  it  remained  for  the  children  to  precipitate 
the  conflict.  From  across  the  street,  between  the  Olsen 
and  the  Isham  houses,  came  a  shower  of  stones.  Most  of 
these  fell  short,  though  one  struck  a  scab  on  the  head. 
The  man  was  no  more  than  twenty  feet  away  from  Saxon. 
He  reeled  toward  her  front  picket  fence,  drawing  a  re- 
volver. With  one  hand  he  brushed  the  blood  from  his 
eyes  and  with  the  other  he  discharged  the  revolver  into 
the  Isham  house.  A  Pinkerton  seized  his  arm  to  prevent 
a  second  shot,  and  dragged  him  along.  At  the  same  in- 
stant a  wilder  roar  went  up  from  the  strikers,  while  a 
volley  of  stones  came  from  between  Saxon's  house  and 
Maggie  Donahue's.  The  scabs  and  their  protectors  made 
a  stand,  drawing  revolvers.  From  their  hard,  determined 
faces — fighting  men  by  profession — Saxon  could  augur 
nothing  but  bloodshed  and  death.  An  elderly  man,  evi- 
dently the  leader,  lifted  a  soft  felt  hat  and  mopped  the 
perspiration  from  the  bald  top  of  his  head.  He  was  a 
large  man,  very  rotund  of  belly  and  helpless  looking.  His 
gray  beard  was  stained  with  streaks  of  tobacco  juice,  and 
he  was  smoking  a  cigar.  He  was  stoop-shouldered,  and 
Saxon  noted  the  dandruff  on  the  collar  of  his  coat. 

One  of  the  men  pointed  into  the  street,  and  several  of 
his  companions  laughed.  The  cause  of  it  was  the  little 
Olsen  boy,  barely  four  years  old,  escaped  somehow  from 
his  mother  and  toddling  toward  his  economic  enemies.  In 
his  right  he  bore  a  rock  so  heavy  that  he  could  scarcely 
lift  it.  With  this  he  feebly  threatened  them.  His  rosy 


188  THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

little  face  was  convulsed  with  rage,  and  he  was  screaming 
over  and  over:  "Dam  scahs!  Dam  scabs!  Dam  scabs!" 
The  laughter  with  which  they  greeted  him  only  increased 
his  fury.  He  toddled  closer,  and  with  a  mighty  exertion 
threw  the  rock.  It  fell  a  scant  six  feet  beyond  his  hand. 

This  much  Saxon  saw,  and  also  Mrs.  Olsen  rushing  into 
the  street  for  her  child.  A  rattling  of  revolver-shots  from 
the  strikers  drew  Saxon's  attention  to  the  men  beneath 
her.  One  of  them  cursed  sharply  and  examined  the  biceps 
of  his  left  arm,  which  hung  limply  by  his  side.  Down  the 
hand  she  saw  the  blood  beginning  to  drip.  She  knew  she 
ought  not  remain  and  watch,  but  the  memory  of  her  fight- 
ing forefathers  was  with  her,  while  she  possessed  no  more 
than  normal  human  fear — if  anything,  less.  She  forgot 
her  child  in  the  eruption  of  battle  that  had  broken  upon 
her  quiet  street.  And  she  forgot  the  strikers,  and  every- 
thing else,  in  amazement  at  what  had  happened  to  the 
round-bellied,  cigar-smoking  leader.  In  some  strange  way, 
she  knew  not  how,  his  head  had  become  wedged  at  the 
neck  between  the  tops  of  the  pickets  of  her  fence.  His 
body  hung  down  outside,  the  knees  not  quite  touching  the 
ground.  His  hat  had  fallen  off,  and  the  sun  was  making 
an  astounding  high  light  on  his  bald  spot.  The  cigar,  too, 
was  gone.  She  saw  he  was  looking  at  her.  One  hand,  be- 
tween the  pickets,  seemed  waving  at  her,  and  almost  he 
seemed  to  wink  at  her  jocosely,  though  she  knew  it  to  be 
the  contortion  of  deadly  pain. 

Possibly  a  second,  or,  at  most,  two  seconds,  she  gazed  at 
this,  when  she  was  aroused  by  Bert's  voice.  He  was  run- 
ning along  the  sidewalk,  in  front  of  her  house,  and  behind 
him  charged  several  more  strikers,  while  he  shouted: 
"Come  on,  you  Mohegans!  We  got  'em  nailed  to  the 
cross ! ' ' 

In  his  left  hand  he  carried  a  pick-handle,  in  his  right 
a  revolver,  already  empty,  for  he  clicked  the  cylinder 
vainly  around  as  he  ran.  With  an  abrupt  stop,  droppii?^ 
the  pick-handle,  he  whirled  half  about,  facing  Saxon's 
gate.  He  was  sinking  down,  when  he  straightened  him* 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     189 

self  to  throw  the  revolver  into  the  face  of  a  scab  who 
was  jumping  toward  him.  Then  he  began  swaying,  at 
the  same  time  sagging  at  the  knees  and  waist.  Slowly, 
with  infinite  effort,  he  caught  a  gate  picket  in  his  right 
hand,  and,  still  slowly,  as  if  lowering  himself,  sank  down, 
while  past  him  leaped  the  crowd  of  strikers  he  had  led. 

It  was  battle  without  quarter — a  massacre.  The  scabs 
and  their  protectors,  surrounded,  backed  against  Saxon's 
fence,  fought  like  cornered  rats,  but  could  not  withstand 
the  rush  of  a  hundred  men.  Clubs  and  pick-handles  were 
swinging,  revolvers  were  exploding,  and  cobblestones  were 
tiuug  with  crushing  effect  at  arm's  distance.  Saxon  saw 
young  Frank  Davis,  a  friend  of  Bert's  and  a  father  of 
several  months'  standing,  press  the  muzzle  of  his  revolver 
against  a  scab's  stomach  and  fire.  There  were  curses  and 
snarls  of  rage,  wild  cries  of  terror  and  pain.  Mercedes 
was  right.  These  things  were  not  men.  They  were  beasts, 
fighting  over  bones,  destroying  one  another  for  bones. 

Jobs  are  bones;  jobs  are  bones.  The  phrase  was  an  in- 
cessant iteration  in  Saxon's  brain.  Much  as  she  might 
have  wished  it,  she  was  powerless  now  to  withdraw  from 
the  window.  It  was  as  if  she  were  paralyzed.  Her  brain 
no  longer  worked.  She  sat  numb,  staring,  incapable  of 
anything  save  seeing  the  rapid  horror  before  her  eyes 
that  flashed  along  like  a  moving  picture  film  gone  mad. 
She  saw  Pinkertons,  special  police,  and  strikers  go  down. 
One  scab,  terribly  wounded,  on  his  knees  and  begging  for 
mercy,  was  kicked  in  the  face.  As  he  sprawled  backward, 
.another  striker,  standing  over  him,  fired  a  revolver  into' 
'his  chest,  quickly  and  deliberately,  again  and  again,  until 
the  weapon  was  empty.  Another  scab,  backed  over  the 
pickets  by  a  hand  clutching  his  throat,  had  his  face  pulped 
by  a  revolver  butt.  Again  and  again,  continually,  the 
revolver  rose  and  fell,  and  Saxon  knew  the  man  who 
wielded  it — Chester  Johnson.  She  had  met  him  at  dances 
and  danced  with  him  in  the  days  before  she  was  married. 
He  had  always  been  kind  and  good  natured.  She  re- 
membered the  Friday  night,  after  a  City  Hall  band  con- 


190  THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

cert,  when  he  had  taken  her  and  two  other  girls  to  Tony's 
Tamale  Grotto  on  Thirteenth  street.  And  after  that  they 
had  all  gone  to  Pabst's  Cafe  and  drunk  a  glass  of  beer 
before  they  went  home.  It  was  impossible  that  this  could 
be  the  same  Chester  Johnson.  And  as  she  looked,  she 
saw  the  round-bellied  leader,  still  wedged  by  the  neck  be- 
tween the  pickets,  draw  a  revolver  with  his  free  hand,  and, 
squinting  horribly  sidewise,  press  the  muzzle  against  Ches- 
ter's side.  She  tried  to  scream  a  warning.  She  did 
scream,  and  Chester  looked  up  and  saw  her.  At  that 
moment  the  revolver  went  off,  and  he  collapsed  prone  upon 
the  body  of  the  scab.  And  the  bodies  of  three  men  hung 
on  her  picket  fence. 

Anything  could  happen  now.  Quite  without  surprise, 
she  saw  the  strikers  leaping  the  fence,  trampling  her  few 
little  geraniums  and  pansies  into  the  earth  as  they  fled 
between  Mercedes'  house  and  hers.  Up  Pine  street,  from 
the  railroad  yards,  was  coming  a  rush  of  railroad  police 
and  Pinkerton's,  firing  as  they  ran.  While  down  Pine 
street,  gongs  clanging,  horses  at  a  gallop,  came  three  pa- 
trol wagons  packed  with  police.  The  strikers  were  in  a 
trap.  The  only  way  out  was  between  the  bouses  and  over 
the  back  yard  fences.  The  jam  in  the  narrow  alley  pre- 
vented them  all  from  escaping.  A  dozen  were  cornered  in 
the  angle  between  the  front  of  her  house  and  the  steps. 
And  as  they  had  done,  so  were  they  done  by.  No  effort 
was  made  to  arrest.  They  were  clubbed  down  and  shot 
down  to  the  last  man  by  the  guardians  of  the  peace  who 
were  infuriated  by  what  had  been  wreaked  on  their  breth- 
ren. 

It  was  all  over,  and  Saxon,  moving  as  in  a  dream, 
clutching  the  banister  tightly,  came  down  the  front  steps. 
The  round-bellied  leader  still  leered  at  her  and  fluttered 
one  hand,  though  two  big  policemen  were  just  bending  to 
extricate  him.  The  gate  was  off  its  hinges,  which  seemed 
strange,  for  she  had  been  watching  all  the  time  and  had 
not  seen  it  happen. 

Bert's  eyes  were  closed.     His  lips  were  blood-flecked, 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     191 

and  there  was  a  gurgling  in  his  throat  as  if  he  were  trying 
to  say  something.  As  she  stooped  above  him,  with  her 
handkerchief  brushing  the  blood  from  his  cheek  where 
some  one  had  stepped  on  him,  his  eyes  opened.  The  old 
defiant  light  was  in  them.  He  did  not  know  her.  The 
lips  moved,  and  faintly,  almost  reminiscently,  he  mur- 
mured, "The  last  of  the  Mohegans,  the  last  of  the  Mo- 
hegans."  Then  he  groaned,  and  the  eyelids  drooped  down 
again.  He  was  not  dead.  She  knew  that.  The  chest  still 
rose  and  fell,  and  the  gurgling  still  continued  in  his 
throat. 

She  looked  up.  Mercedes  stood  beside  her.  The  old 
woman's  eyes  were  very  bright,  her  withered  cheeks 
flushed. 

"Will  you  help  me  carry  him  into  the  house?"  Saxon 
asked. 

Mercedes  nodded,  turned  to  a  sergeant  of  police,  and 
made  the  request  to  him.  The  sergeant  gave  a  swift 
glance  at  Bert,  and  his  eyes  were  bitter  and  ferocious  as 
he  refused: 

"To  hell  with  'm.    "We'll  care  for  our  own. 

"Maybe  you  and  I  can  do  it,"  Saxon  said. 

"Don't  be  a  fool."  Mercedes  was  beckoning  to  Mrs. 
Olsen  across  the  street.  "You  go  into  the  house,  little 
mother  that  is  to  be.  This  is  bad  for  you.  We'll  carry 
him  in.  Mrs.  Olsen  is  coming,  and  we'll  get  Maggie  Dona- 
hue. ' ' 

Saxon  led  the  way  into  the  back  bedroom  which  Billy 
had  insisted  on  furnishing.  As  she  opened  the  door,  the 
carpet  seemed  to  fly  up  into  her  face  as  with  the  force 
of  a  blow,  for  she  remembered  Bert  had  laid  that  carpet. 
And  as  the  women  placed  him  on  the  bed  she  recalled  that 
it  was  Bert  and  she,  between  them,  who  had  set  the  bed 
up  one  Sunday  morning. 

And  then  she  felt  very  queer,  and  was  surprised  to  see 
Mercedes  regarding  her  with  questioning,  searching  eyes. 
After  that  her  queerness  came  on  very  fast,  and  she  de- 
scended into  the  hell  of  pain  that  is  given  to  women  alone 


192  THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

to  know.  She  was  supported,  half-carried,  to  the  front 
bedroom.  Many  faces  were  about  her — Mercedes,  Mrs. 
Olsen,  Maggie  Donahue.  It  seemed  she  must  ask  Mrs. 
Olsen  if  she  had  saved  little  Emil  from  the  street,  but 
Mercedes  cleared  Mrs.  Olsen  out  to  look  after  Bert,  and 
Maggie  Donahue  went  to  answer  a  knock  at  the  front  door. 
From  the  street  came  a  loud  hum  of  voices,  punctuated  by 
shouts  and  commands,  and  from  time  to  time  there  was 
a  clanging  of  the  gongs  of  ambulances  and  patrol  wagons. 
Then  appeared  the  fat,  comfortable  face  of  Martha  Skel- 
ton,  and,  later,  Doctor  Hentley  came.  Once,  in  a  clear 
interval,  through  the  thin  wall  Saxon  heard  the  high  open- 
ing notes  of  Mary's  hysteria.  And,  another  time,  she 
heard  Mary  repeating  over  and  over:  "I'll  never  go  back 
to  tbe  laundry.  Never.  Never." 


CHAPTER  X 

BILLY  could  never  get  over  the  shock,  during  that  period, 
of  Saxon's  appearance.  Morning  after  morning,  and  eve- 
ning after  evening  when  he  came  home  from  work,  he 
would  enter  the  room  where  she  lay  and  fight  a  royal  bat- 
tle to  hide  his  feelings  and  make  a  show  of  cheerfulness 
and  geniality.  She  looked  so  small  lying  there,  so  small 
and  shrunken  and  weary,  and  yet  so  child-like  in  her 
Binallness.  Tenderly,  as  he  sat  beside  her,  he  would  take 
up  her  pale  hand  and  stroke  the  slim,  transparent  arm, 
marveling  at  the  smallness  and  delicacy  of  the  bones. 

One  of  her  first  questions,  puzzling  alike  to  Billy  and 
Mary,  was: 

"Did  they  save  little  Emil  Olsen?" 

And  when  she  told  them  how  he  had  attacked,  single- 
handed,  the  whole  twenty-four  fighting  men,  Billy's  face 
glowed  with  appreciation. 

"The  little  cuss!"  he  said.  "That's  the  kind  of  a  kid 
to  be  proud  of." 

He  halted  awkwardly,  and  his  very  evident  fear  that 
he  had  hurt  her  touched  Saxon.  She  put  her  hand  out 
to  his. 

"Billy,"  she  began;  then  waited  till  Mary  left  the 
room. 

"I  never  asked  before — not  that  it  matters  .  .  . 
now.  But  I  waited  for  you  to  tell  me.  "Was  it  .  .  .  ? " 

He  shook  his  head. 

"No;  it  was  a  girl.  A  perfect  little  girl.  Only  .  .  . 
it  was  too  soon. ' ' 

She  pressed  his  hand,  and  almost  it  was  she  that  sym- 
pathized with  him  in  his  affliction. 


194  THE   VALLEY   OF  -THE   MOON 

"I  never  told  you,  Billy — you  were  so  set  on  a  boy;  but 
I  planned,  just  the  same,  if  it  was  a  girl,  to  call  her  Daisy. 
You  remember,  that  was  my  mother's  name." 

He  nodded  his  approbation. 

"Say,  Saxon,  you  know  1  did  want  a  boy  like  the  very 
dickens  .  .  .  well,  I  don't  care  now.  I  think  I'm  set 
just  as  hard  on  a  girl,  an',  well,  here's  hopin'  the  next  will 
be  called  .  .  .  you  wouldn't  mind,  would  you?" 

"What?" 

"If  we  called  it  the  same  name,  Daisy?" 

"Oh,  Billy!  I  was  thinking  the  very  same  thing." 

Then  his  face  grew  stern,  as  he  went  on. 

"Only  there  ain't  go  in'  to  be  a  next.  I  didn't  know 
what  havin'  children  was  like  before.  You  can't  run  any 
more  risks  like  that." 

"Hear  the  big,  strong,  afraid-man  talk!"  she  jeered, 
with  a  wan  smile.  "You  don't  know  anything  about  it. 
How  can  a  man?  I  am  a  healthy,  natural  woman.  Every- 
thing would  have  been  all  right  this  time  if  ...  if 
all  that  fighting  hadn't  happened.  Where  did  they  bury 
Bert?" 

"You  knew?" 

"All  the  time.  And  where  is  Mercedes?  She  hasn't 
been  in  for  two  days." 

' '  Old  Barry 's  sick.    She 's  with  him. ' ' 

He  did  not  tell  her  that  the  old  night  watchman  was 
dying,  two  thin  walls  and  half  a  dozen  feet  away. 

Saxon's  lips  were  trembling,  and  she  began  to  cry 
weakly,  clinging  to  Billy's  hand  with  both  of  hers. 

"I— I  can't  help  it,"  she  sobbed.  "I'll  be  all  right  in 
a  minute  .  .  .  Our  little  girl,  Billy.  Think  of  it! 
And  I  never  saw  her!" 

She  was  still  lying  on  her  bed,  when,  one  evening,  Mary 
saw  fit  to  break  out  in  bitter  thanksgiving  that  she  had 
escaped,  and  was  destined  to  escape,  what  Saxon  had  gone 
through. 

"Aw,  what  are  you  talkin'  about?"  Billy  demanded. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     195 

J<You'll  get  married  some  time  again  as  sure  as  beans  is 
beans." 

"Not  to  the  best  man  living,"  she  proclaimed.  "And 
there  ain't  no  call  for  it.  There's  too  many  people  in 
the  world  now,  else  why  are  there  two  or  three  men 
for  every  job?  And,  besides,  havin'  children  is  too  ter- 
rible/' 

Saxon,  with  a  look  of  patient  wisdom  in  her  face  that 
became  glorified  as  she  spoke,  made  answer: 

"I  ought  to  know  what  it  means.  I've  been  through 
it,  and  I'm  still  in  the  thick  of  it,  and  I  want  to  say  to 
you  right  now,  out  of  all  the  pain  and  the  ache  and  the 
sorrow,  that  it  is  the  most  beautiful-,  wonderful  thing  in 
the  world." 

As  Saxon's  strength  came  back  to  her  (and  when  Doc- 
tor Hentley  had  privily  assured  Billy  that  she  was  sound 
as  a  dollar),  she  herself  took  up  the  matter  of  the  indus- 
trial tragedy  that  had  taken  place  before  her  door.  The 
militia  had  been  called  out  immediately,  Billy  informed 
her,  and  was  encamped  then  at  the  foot  of  Pine  street  on 
the  waste  ground  next  to  the  railroad  yards.  As  for  the 
strikers,  fifteen  of  them  were  in  jail.  A  house  to  house 
search  had  been  made  in  the  neighborhood  by  the  police, 
and  in  this  way  nearly  the  whole  fifteen,  all  wounded,  had 
been  captured.  It  would  go  hard  with  them,  Billy  fore- 
boded gloomily.  The  newspapers  were  demanding  blood 
for  blood,  and  all  the  ministers  in  Oakland  had  preached 
fierce  sermons  against  the  .strikers.  The  railroad  had 
filled  every  place,  and  it  was  well  known  that  the  striking 
shopmen  not  only  would  never  get  their  old  jobs  back  but 
were  blacklisted  in  every  railroad  in  the  United  States. 
Already  they  were  beginning  to  scatter.  A  number  had 
gone  to  Panama,  and  four  were  talking  of  going  to  Ecua- 
dor to  work  in  the  shops  of  the  railroad  that  ran  over  the 
Andes  to  Quito. 

With  anxiety  keenly  concealed,  she  tried  to  feel  out 
Billy's  opinion  on  what  had  happened. 


196  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

"That  shows  what  Bert's  violent  methods  come  to,'0 
she  said. 

He  shook  his  head  slowly  and  gravely. 

"They'll  hang  Chester  Johnson,  anyway,"  he  answered 
indirectly.  "You  know  him.  You  told  me  you  used  to 
dance  with  him.  Pie  was  caught  red-handed,  lyin'  on 
the  body  of  a  scab  he  beat  to  death.  Old  Jelly  Belly's  got 
three  bullet  holes  in  him,  but  he  ain't  goin'  to  die,  and 
he's  got  Chester's  number.  They'll  hang  'm  on  Jell^ 
Belly's  evidence.  It  was  all  in  the  papers.  Jelly  Belly 
shot  him,  too,  a-hangin'  by  the  neck  on  our  pickets." 

Saxon  shuddered.  Jelly  Belly  must  be  the  man  with 
the  bald  spot  and  the  tobacco-stained  whiskers. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "I  saw  it  all.  It  seemed  he  must 
have  hung  there  for  hours." 

"It  was  all  over,  from  first  to  last,  in  five  minutes." 

"It  seemed  ages  and  ages." 

"I  guess  that's  the  way  it  seemed  to  Jelly  Belly,  stuck 
on  the  pickets,"  Billy  smiled  grimly.  "But  he's  a  hard 
one  to  kill.  He's  been  shot  an'  cut  up  a  dozen  different 
times.  But  they  say  now  he'll  be  crippled  for  life — have 
to  go  around  on  crutches,  or  in  a  wheel-chair.  That'll  stop 
him  from  doin'  any  more  dirty  work  for  the  railroad.  He 
was  one  of  their  top  gun-fighters — always  up  to  his  ears 
in  the  thick  of  any  fightin'  that  was  goin'  on.  He  never 
was  leary  of  anything  on  two  feet,  I'll  say  that  much 
for  'm." 

"Where  does  he  live?"  Saxon  inquired. 

"Up  on  Adeline,  near  Tenth — fine  neighborhood  an* 
fine  two-storied  house.  He  must  pay  thirty  dollars  a 
month  rent.  I  guess  the  railroad  paid  him  pretty  well." 

"Then  he  must  be  married?" 

"Yep.  I  never  seen  his  wife,  but  he's  got  one  son,  Jack, 
a  passenger  engineer.  I  used  to  know  him.  He  was  a 
nifty  boxer,  though  he  never  went  into  the  ring.  An'  he's 
got  another  son  that's  teacher  in  the  high  school.  His 
name's  Paul.  We're  about  the  same  age.  He  was  great 
at  baseball.  I  knew  him  when  we  was  kids.  He  pitched 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      19V 

me  out  three  times  hand-runnin*  once,  when  the  Durant 
played  the  Cole  School." 

Saxon  sat  back  in  the  Morris  chair,  resting  and  think- 
ing. The  problem  was  growing  more  complicated  than 
ever.  This  elderly,  round-bellied,  and  bald-headed  gun- 
fighter,  too,  had  a  wife  and  family.  And  there  was  Frank 
Davis,  married  barely  a  year  and  with  a  baby  boy.  Per- 
haps the  scab  he  shot  in  the  stomach  had  a  wife  and  chil- 
dren. All  seemed  to  be  acquainted,  members  of  a 
very  large  family,  and  yet,  because  of  their  particular 
families,  they  battered  and  killed  each  other.  She  had 
seen  Chester  Johnson  kill  a  scab,  and  now  they  were  going 
to  hang  Chester  Johnson,  who  had  married  Kittie  Brady 
out  of  the  cannery,  and  she  and  Kittie  Brady  had  worked 
together  years  before  in  the  paper  box  factory. 

Vainly  Saxon  waited  for  Billy  to  say  something  that 
would  show  he  did  not  countenance  the  killing  of  the 


"It  was  wrong,"  she  ventured  finally. 

"They  killed  Bert,"  he  countered.  "An'  a  lot  of  others. 
An'  Frank  Davis.  Did  you  know  he  was  dead?  Had  his 
whole  lower  jaw  shot  away — died  in  the  ambulance  before 
they  could  get  him  to  the  receiving  hospital.  There  was 
never  so  much  killin'  at  one  time  in  Oakland  before." 

"But  it  was  their  fault,"  she  contended.  "They  began 
it.  It  was  murder." 

Billy  did  not  reply,  but  she  heard  him  mutter  hoarsely, 
She  knew  he  said  "God  damn  them";  but  when  she  askec^ 
"What?"  he  made  no  answer.  His  eyes  were  deep  with, 
troubled  clouds,  while  the  mouth  had  hardened,  and  ail 
his  face  was  bleak. 

To  her  it  was  a  heart-stab.  Was  he,  too,  like  the  rest? 
Would  he  kill  other  men  who  had  families,  like  Bert,  and 
Frank  Davis,  and  Chester  Johnson  had  killed?  Was  he, 
too,  a  wild  beast,  a  dog  that  would  snarl  over  a  bone  ? 

She  sighed.  Life  was  a  strange  puzzle.  Perhaps  Mer- 
cedes Higgins  was  right  in  her  cruel  statement  of  the 
terms  of  existence. 


198  THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

"What  of  it?"  Billy  laughed  harshly,  as  if  in  answer 
to  her  mmttered  questions.  "It's  dog  eat  dog,  I  guess, 
and  it's  always  ben  that  way.  Take  that  scrap  outside 
there.  They  killed  each  other  just  like  the  North  an* 
South  did  in  the  Civil  War." 

"But  workingmen  can't  win  that  way,  Billy.  You  say 
yourself  that  it  spoiled  their  chance  of  winning. ' ' 

"I  suppose  not,"  he  admitted  reluctantly.  "But  what 
other  chance  they've  got  to  win  I  don't  see.  Look  at  us. 
We'll  be  up  against  it  next." 

"Not  the  teamsters?"  she  cried. 

He  nodded  gloomily. 

"The  bosses  are  cuttin'  loose  all  along  the  line  for  a 
high  old  time.  Say  they're  goin'  to  beat  us  to  our  knees 
till  we  come  crawlin*  back  a-beggin'  for  our  jobs.  They've 
bucked  up  real  high  an'  mighty  what  of  all  that  killin* 
the  other  day.  Havin'  the  troops  out  is  half  the  fight, 
along  with  havin'  the  preachers  an'  the  papers  an'  the 
public  behind  'em.  They're  shootin'  off  their  mouths  al- 
ready about  what  they're  goin'  to  do.  They're  sure  gun- 
ning for  trouble.  First,  they're  goin'  to  hang  Chester 
Johnson  an'  as  many  more  of  the  fifteen  as  they  can. 
They  say  that  flat.  The  Tribune,  an'  the  Enquirer,  an* 
the  Times  keep  sayin'  it  over  an'  over  every  day.  They're 
all  union-bustin '  to  beat  the  band.  No  more  closed  shop. 
To  hell  with  organized  labor.  Why,  the  dirty  little  Intel- 
ligencer vome  out  this  morning  an'  said  that  every  union 
official  in  Oakland  ought  to  be  run  outa  town  or  stretched 
up.  Fine,  eh?  You  bet  it's  line. 

.  ''Look  at  us.  It  ain't  a  case  any  more  of  sympathetic 
'strike  for  the  mill- workers.  We  got  our  own  troubles. 
They've  fired  our  four  best  men — the  ones  that  was  always 
on  the  conference  committees  Did  it  without  cause. 
They're  lookin'  for  trouble,  as  I  told  you,  an'  they'll  get 
it,  too,  if  they  don't  watch  out.  We  got  our  tip  from  the 
Frisco  Water  Front  Confederation.  With  them  backin" 
V  we'll  go  some." 

"'You  mean  you'll    .     ..     ,    strike?"  Saxon  asked. 


THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON  199 

He  bent  his  head. 

"But  isn't  that  what  they  want  you  io  do? — from  the 
way  they're  acting?" 

' '  What 's  the  difference  ? ' '  Billy  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
then  continued.  ''It's  better  to  strike  than  to  get  fired. 
We  beat  'em  to  it,  that's  all,  an'  we  catch  'em  before 
they're  ready.  Don't  we  know  what  they're  doin'? 
They're  collectin'  gradin '-camp  drivers  an'  mule-skinners 
all  up  an'  down  the  state.  They  got  forty  of  'em,  feedin' 
'em  in  a  hotel  in  Stockton  right  now,  an'  ready  to  rush 
'em  in  on  us,  an'  hundreds  more  like  'em.  So  this  Satur- 
day 's  the  last  wages  I  '11  likely  bring  home  for  some  time. ' ' 

Saxon  closed  her  eyes  and  thought  quietly  for  five  min- 
utes. It  was  not  her  way  to  take  things  excitedly.  The 
coolness  of  poise  that  Billy  so  admired  never  deserted  her 
in  time  of  emergency.  She  realized  that  she  herself  was 
no  more  than  a  mote  caught  up  in  this  tangled,  nonunder- 
standable  conflict  of  many  motes. 

"We'll  have  to  draw  from  our  savings  to  pay  for  this 
month's  rent,"  she  said  brightly. 

Billy's  face  fell. 

"We  ain't  got  as  much  in  the  bank  as  you  think,"  he 
confessed.  "Bert  had  to  be  buried,  you  know,  an'  I 
coughed  up  what  the  others  couldn't  raise." 

"How  much  was  it?" 

"Forty  dollars.  I  was  goin'  to  stand  off  the  butcher  an' 
the  rest  for  a  while.  They  knew  I  was  good  pay.  But 
they  put  it  to  me  straight.  They'd  ben  carryin'  the  shop- 
men right  along  an'  was  up  against  it  themselves.  An' 
now,  with  that  strike  smashed  they  're  pretty  much  smashed 
themselves.  So  I  took  it  all  out  of  the  bank.  I  knew  you 
wouldn't  mind.  You  don't,  do  you?" 

She  smiled  bravely,  and  bravely  overcame  the  sinking 
feeling  at  her  heart. 

"It  was  the  only  right  thing  to  do,  Billy.  I  would 
have  done  it  if  you  were  lying  sick,  and  Bert  would  have 
done  it  for  you  an'  me  if  it  had  been  the  other  way 
around." 


200  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

His  face  was  glowing. 

"Gee,  Saxon,  a  fellow  can  always  count  on  you.  You're 
like  my  right  hand.  That's  why  I  say  no  more  babies.  If 
I  lose  you  I'm  crippled  for  life." 

"We've  got  to  economize,"  she  mused,  nodding  her  ap- 
preciation. "How  much  is  in  bank?" 

"Just  about  thirty  dollars.  You  see,  I  had  to  pay 
Martha  Skelton  an'  for  the  ...  a  few  other  little 
things.  An'  the  union  took  time  by  the  neck  and  levied 
a  four  dollar  emergency  assessment  on  every  member  just 
to  be  ready  if  the  strike  was  pulled  off.  But  Doc  Hentley 
can  wait.  He  said  as  much.  He's  the  goods,  if  anybody 
should  ask  you.  How'd  you  like  'm?" 

"I  liked  him.  But  I  don't  know  about  doctors.  He's 
the  first  I  ever  had — except  when  I  was  vaccinated  once, 
and  then  the  city  did  that." 

"Looks  like  the  street  car  men  are  goin'  out,  too.  Dan 
Fallon  's  come  to  town.  Came  all  the  way  from  New  York. 
Tried  to  sneak  in  on  the  quiet,  but  the  fellows  knew  when 
he  left  New  York,  an'  kept  track  of  him  all  the  way 
acrost.  They  have  to.  He's  Johnny-on-the-Spot  when- 
ever street  car  men  are  licked  into  shape.  He's  won  lots 
of  street  car  strikes  for  the  bosses.  Keeps  an  army  of 
strike  breakers  an'  ships  them  all  over  the  country  on 
special  trains  wherever  they're  needed.  Oakland's  never 
seen  labor  troubles  like  she's  got  and  is  goin'  to  get.  All 
hell's  goin'  to  break  loose  from  the  looks  of  it." 

"Watch  out  for  yourself,  then,  Billy.  I  don't  want  to 
lose  you  either." 

"Aw,  that's  all  right.  I  can  take  care  of  myself.  An 
besides,  it  ain't  as  though  we  was  licked.  We  got  a  good 
chance. ' ' 

"But  you'll  lose  if  there  is  any  killing." 

"Yep;  we  gotta  keep  an  eye  out  against  that." 

"No  violence." 

"No  gun-fighting  or  dynamite,"  he  assented.  "But  a 
heap  of  scabs '11  get  their  heads  broke.  That  has  to  be." 

"But  you  won't  do  any  of  that,  Billy." 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      201 

"Not  so  as  any  slob  can  testify  before  a  court  to  havinv 
seen  me."  Then,  with  a  quick  shift,  he  changed  the  sub- 
ject. "Old  Barry  Higgins  is  dead.  I  didn't  want  to  tell 
you  till  you  was  outa  bed.  Buried  'm  a  week  ago.  An' 
the  old  woman's  movin'  to  Frisco.  She  told  me  she'd  be 
in  to  say  good  bye.  She  stuck  by  you  pretty  well  them 
first  couple  of  days,  an'  she  showed  Martha  Skelton  a  few 
that  made  her  hair  curl.  She  got  Martha's  goat  from  the 
jump." 


CHAPTER  XI 

WITH  Billy  on  strike  and  away  doing  picket  duty,  ano 
with  the  departure  of  Mercedes  and  the  death  of  Bert 
Saxon  was  left  much  to  herself  in  a  loneliness  that  evei 
in  one  as  healthy-minded  as  she  could  not  fail  to  produce 
morbidness.  Mary,  too,  had  left,  having  spoken  vaguely 
«f  taking  a  job  at  housework  in  Piedmont. 

Billy  could  help  Saxon  little  in  her  trouble.  He  dimly 
sensed  her  suffering,  without  comprehending  the  scope 
and  intensity  of  it.  He  was  too  man-practical,  and,  by  his 
very  sex,  too  remote  from  the  intimate  tragedy  that  was 
hers.  He  was  an  outsider  at  the  best,  a  friendly  onlooker 
who  saw  little.  To  her  the  baby  had  been  quick  and 
real.  It  was  still  quick  and  real.  That  was  her  trouble. 
By  no  deliberate  effort  of  will  could  she  fill  the  aching 
void  of  its  absence.  Its  reality  became,  at  times,  an  hallu- 
cination. Somewhere  it  still  was,  and  she  must  find  it. 
She  would  catch  herself,  on  occasion,  listening  with 
strained  ears  for  the  cry  she  had  never  heard,  yet  which, 
in  fancy,  she  had  heard  a  thousand  times  in  the  happy 
months  before  the  end.  Twice  she  left  her  bed  in  her 
sleep  and  went  searching — each  time  coming  to  herself 
beside  her  mother's  chest  of  drawers  in  which  were  the 
tiny  garments.  To  herself,  at  such  moments,  she  would 
say,  "I  had  a  baby  once."  And  she  would  say  it,  aloud 
as  she  watched  the  children  playing  in  the  street. 

One  day,  on  the  Eighth  street  cars,  a  young  mother  sat 
beside  her,  a  crowing  infant  in  her  arms.  And  Saxon 
said  to  her: 

"I  had  a  baby  once.     It  died." 

The  mother  looked  at  her,  startled,  half-drew  the  baby 
tighter  in  her  arms,  jealously,  or  as  if  in  fear;  then  she 
softened  as  she  said : 

202 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      203 

"You  poor  thing." 

"Yes,"  Saxon  nodded.    "It  died." 

Tears  welled  into  her  eyes,  and  the  telling  of  her  grief 
seemed  to  have  brought  relief.  But  all  the  day  she  suf- 
fered from  an  almost  overwhelming  desire  to  recite  her  sor- 
row to  the  world — to  the  paying  teller  at  the  bank,  to  the 
elderly  floor- walker  in  Salinger's,  to  the  blind  woman, 
guided  by  a  little  boy,  who  played  on  the  concertina — to 
every  one  save  the  policeman.  The  police  were  new  and 
terrible  creatures  to  her  now.  She  had  seen  them  kill 
the  strikers  as  mercilessly  as  the  strikers  had  killed  the 
scabs.  And,  unlike  the  strikers,  the  police  were  profes- 
sional killers.  They  were  not  fighting  for  jobs.  They 
did  it  as  a  business.  They  could  have  taken  prisoners 
that  day,  in  the  angle  of  her  front  steps  and  the  house. 
But  they  had  not.  Unconsciously,  whenever  approaching 
one,  she  edged  across  the  sidewalk  so  as  to  get  as  far  as 
possible  away  from  him.  She  did  not  reason  it  out,  but 
deeper  than  consciousness  was  the  feeling  that  they  were 
typical  of  something  inimical  to  her  and  hers. 

At  Eighth  and  Broadway,  waiting  for  her  car  to  re- 
turn home,  the  policeman  on  the  corner  recognized  her 
and  greeted  her.  She  turned  white  to  the  lips,  and  her 
heart  fluttered  painfully.  It  was  only  Ned  Hermanmann, 
fatter,  broader-faced,  jollier  looking  than  ever.  He  had 
sat  across  the  aisle  from  her  for  three  terms  at  school.  He 
and  she  had  been  monitors  together  of  the  composition 
books  for  one  term.  The  day  the  powder  works  blew  up 
vat  Pinole,  breaking  every  window  in  the  school,  he  and 
she  had  not  joined  in  the  panic  rush  for  out-of-doors. 
'Both  had  remained  in  the  room,  and  the  irate  principal 
had  exhibited  them,  from  room  to  room,  to  the  cowardly 
classes,  and  then  rewarded  them  with  a  month's  holiday 
from  school.  And  after  that  Ned  Hermanmann  had  be- 
come a  policeman,  and  married  Lena  Highland,  and  Saxon 
had  heard  they  had  five  children. 

But,  in  spite  of  all  that,  he  was  now  a  policeman,  and 
Billy  was  now  a  striker.  Might  not  Ned  Hermanmann 


204  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

some  day  club  and  shoot  Billy  just  as  those  other  police- 
men clubbed  and  shot  the  strikers  by  her  front  steps?  ' 

"What's  the  matter,  Saxon?"  he  asked.    "Sick?" 

She  nodded  and  choked,  unable  to  speak,  and  started 
to  move  toward  her  car  which  was  coming  to  a  stop. 

"I'll  help  you,"  he  offered. 

She  shrank  away  from  his  hand. 

"No;  I'm  all  right,"  she  gasped  hurriedly.  "I'm  not 
going  to  take  it.  I've  forgotten  something." 

' '  She  turned  away  dizzily,  up  Broadway  to  Ninth.  Two 
blocks  along  Ninth,  she  turned  down  Clay  and  back  to 
Eighth  street,  where  she  waited  for  another  car. 

As  the  summer  months  dragged  along,  the  industrial 
situation  in  Oakland  grew  steadily  worse.  Capital  every- 
where seemed  to  have  selected  this  city  for  the  battle  with 
organized  labor.  So  many  men  in  Oakland  were  out  on 
strike,  or  were  locked  out,  or  were  unable  to  work  because 
of  the  dependence  of  their  trades  on  the  other  tied-up 
trades,  that  odd  jobs  at  common  labor  were  hard  to  ob- 
tain. Billy  occasionally  got  a  day's  work  to  do,  but  did 
not  earn  enough  to  make  both  ends  meet,  despite  the  small 
strike  wages  received  at  first,  and  despite  the  rigid  econ- 
omy he  and  Saxon  practiced. 

The  table  she  set  had  scarcely  anything  in  common 
with  that  of  their  first  married  year.  Not  alone  was  every 
item  of  cheaper  quality,  but  many  items  had  disappeared. 
Meat,  and  the  poorest,  was  very  seldom  on  the  table. 
Cow's  milk  had  given  place  to  condensed  milk,  and  even 
the  sparing  use  of  the  latter  had  ceased.  A  roll  of  butter, 
when  they  had  it,  lasted  half  a  dozen  times  as  long  as 
formerly.  "Where  Billy  had  been  used  to  drinking  three 
cups  of  coffee  for  breakfast,  he  now  drank  one.  Saxon 
boiled  this  coffee  an  atrocious  length  of  time,  and  she  paid 
twenty  cents  a  pound  for  it. 

The  blight  of  hard  times  was  on  all  the  neighborhood, 
The  families  not  involved  in  one  strike  were  touched  by 
some  other  strike  or  by  the  cessation  of  work  in  some 


THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON  205 

dependent  trade.  Many  single  young  men  who  were 
lodgers  had  drifted  away,  thus  increasing  the  house  rent 
of  the  families  which  had  sheltered  them. 

' '  Gott ! ' '  said  the  butcher  to  Saxon.  ' '  We  working  clasp 
all  suffer  together.  My  wife  she  cannot  get  her  teeth  fixed 
now.  Pretty  soon  I  go  smash  broke  maybe." 

Once,  when  Billy  was  preparing  to  pawn  his  watch, 
Saxon  suggested  his  borrowing  the  money  from  Billy 
Murphy. 

"I  was  plannin'  that,"  Billy  answered,  "only  I  can't 
now.  I  didn't  tell  you  what  happened  Tuesday  night  at 
the  Sporting  Life  Club.  You  remember  that  squarehead 
Champion  of  the  United  States  Navy?  Bill  was  matched 
with  him,  an'  it  was  sure  easy  money.  Bill  had  'm  goin' 
south  by  the  end  of  the  sixth  round,  an'  at  the  seventh 
went  in  to  finish  'm.  And  then — just  his  luck,  for  his 
trade's  idle  now — he  snaps  his  right  forearm.  Of  course 
the  squarehead  comes  back  at  'm  on  the  jump,  an'  it's 

good  night  for  Bill. Gee !  Us  Mohegans  are  gettin'  our 

bad  luck  handed  to  us  in  chunks  these  days. ' ' 

' '  Don 't ! "  Saxon  cried,  shuddering  involuntarily. 

"What?"  Billy  asked  with  open  mouth  of  surprisfe. 

"Don't  say  that  word  again.  Bert  was  always  saying 
it." 

"Oh,  Mohegans.  All  right,  I  won't.  You  ain't  super- 
stitious, are  you?" 

"No;  but  just  the  same  there's  too  much  truth  in  the 
word  for  me  to  like  it.  Sometimes  it  seems  as  though  he 
was  right.  Times  have  changed.  They've  changed  even 
since  I  was  a  little  girl.  We  crossed  the  plains  and 
opened  up  this  country,  and  now  we're  losing  even  the 
chance  to  work  for  a  living  in  it.  Anc  it's  not  my  fault, 
it's  not  your  fault.  We've  got  to  live  well  or  bad 
just  by  luck,  it  seems.  There's  no  other  way  to  explain 
it." 

"It  beats  me,"  Billy  concurred.  "Look  at  the  way  1 
worked  last  year.  Never  missed  a  day.  I'd  want  to  never 
miss  a  day  this  year,  an'  here  I  haven't  done  a  tap  for 


206  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

weeks  an*  weeks  an*  weeks.  Say !  Who  runs  this  country 
anyway?" 

Saxon  had  stopped  the  morning  paper,  but  frequently 
Maggie  Donahue's  hoy,  who  served  a  Tribune  route,  tossed 
an  "extra"  on  her  steps.  From  its  editorials  Saxon 
gleaned  that  organized  labor  was  trying  to  run  the  coun- 
try and  that  it  was  making  a  mess  of  it.  It  was  all  the 
fault  of  domineering  labor — so  ran  the  editorials,  column 
by  column,  day  by  day;  and  Saxon  was  convinced,  yet 
remained  unconvinced.  The  social  puzzle  of  living  was 
too  intricate. 

The  teamsters'  strike,  backed  financially  by  the  team- 
sters of  San  Francisco  and  by  the  allied  unions  of  the 
San  Francisco  Water  Front  Confederation,  promised  to 
be  long-drawn,  whether  or  not  it  was  successful.  The 
Oakland  harness-washers  and  stablemen,  with  few  ex- 
ceptions, had  gone  out  with  the  teamsters.  The  teaming 
firms  were  not  half-filling  their  contracts,  but  the  employ- 
ers' association  was  helping  them.  In  fact,  half  the  em- 
ployers' associations  of  the  Pacific  Coast  were  helping  the 
Oakland  Employers'  Association. 

Saxon  was  behind  a  month's  rent,  which,  when  it  is 
considered  that  rent  was  paid  in  advance,  was  equivalent 
to  two  months.  Likewise,  she  was  two  months  behind  in 
the  installments  on  the  furniture.  Yet  she  was  not  pressed 
very  hard  by  Salinger's,  the  furniture  dealers. 

"We're  givin'  you  all  the  rope  we  can,"  said  their  col- 
lector. "My  orders  is  to  make  you  dig  up  every  cent  I 
can  and  at  the  same  time  not  to  be  too  hard.  Salinger's 
are  trying  to  do  the  right  thing,  but  they're  up  against  it, 
too.  You  've  no  idea  how  many  accounts  like  yours  they  're 
carrying  along.  Sooner  or  later  they'll  have  to  call  a  halt 
or  get  it  in  the  neck  themselves.  And  in  the  meantime  just 
see  if  you  can't  scrape  up  five  dollars  by  next  week — just 
to  cheer  them  along,  you  know. ' ' 

One  of  the  stablemen  who  had  not  gone  out,  Henderson 
by  name,  worked  at  Billy's  stables.  Despite  the  urging  of 
the  bosses  to  eat  and  sleep  in  the  stable  like  the  other 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     207 

men,  Henderson  had  persisted  in  coming  home  each  morn- 
ing to  his  little  house  around  the  corner  from  Saxon's  on 
Fifth  street.  Several  times  she  had  seen  him  swinging 
along  defiantly,  his  dinner  pail  in  his  hand,  while  the 
neighborhood  boys  dogged  his  heels  at  a  safe  distance  and 
\informed  him  in  yapping  chorus  that  he  was  a  scab  and 
fio  good.  But  one  evening,  on  his  way  to  work,  in  a  spirit 
of  bravado  he  went  into  the  Pile-Drivers'  Home,  the  saloon 
at  Seventh  and  Pine.  There  it  was  his  mortal  mischance 
to  encounter  Otto  Frank,  a  striker  who  drove  from  the 
same  stable.  Not  many  minutes  later  an  ambulance  was 
hurrying  Henderson  to  the  receiving  hospital  with  a  frac- 
tured skull,  while  a  patrol  wagon  was  no  less  swiftly 
carrying  Otto  Frank  to  the  city  prison. 

Maggie  Donahue  it  was,  eyes  shining  with  gladness,  who 
told  Saxon  of  the  happening. 

"Served  him  right,  too,  the  dirty  scab,"  Maggie  con- 
cluded. 

"But  his  poor  wife!"  was  Saxon's  cry.  "She's  not 
strong.  And  then  the  children.  She'll  never  be  able  to 
take  care  of  them  if  her  husband  dies." 

* '  An '  serve  her  right,  the  damned  slut ! ' ' 

Saxon  was  both  shocked  and  hurt  by  the  Irishwoman's 
brutality.  But  Maggie  was  implacable. 

"  'Tis  all  she  or  anny  woman  deserves  that'll  put  up 
&n'  live  with  a  scab.  What  about  her  children?  Let  'm 
starve,  an '  her  man  a-takin '  the  food  out  of  other  children  'a 
mouths." 

Mrs.  Olsen's  attitude  was  different.  Beyond  passive 
sentimental  pity  for  Henderson's  wife  and  children,  she 
gave  them  no  thought,  her  chief  concern  being  for  Otto 
Frank  and  Otto  Frank's  wife  and  children — herself  and 
Mrs.  Frank  being  full  sisters. 

"If  he  dies,  they  will  hang  Otto,"  she  said.  "And  then 
what  will  poor  Hilda  do?  She  has  varicose  veins  in  both 
legs,  and  she  never  can  stand  on  her  feet  all  day  an'  work 
for  wages.  And  me,  I  cannot  help.  Ain't  Carl  out  of 
work,  foo?" 


20S  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

Billy  had  still  another  point  of  view. 

"It  will  give  the  strike  a  black  eye,  especially  if  Hen- 
derson croaks, ' '  he  worried,  when  he  came  home.  ' '  They  11 
hang  Frank  on  record  time.  Besides,  we'll  have  to  put 
up  a  defense,  an'  lawyers  charge  like  Sam  Hill.  They'll 
eat  a  hole  in  our  treasury  you  could  drive  every  team  in 
Oakland  through.  An'  if  Frank  hadn't  ben  screwed  up 
with  whisky  he'd  never  a-done  it.  He's  the  mildest,  good- 
aaturedest  man  sober  you  ever  seen." 

Twice  that  evening  Billy  left  the  house  to  find  out  if 
Henderson  was  dead  yet.  In  the  morning  the  papers  gave 
little  hope,  and  the  evening  papers  published  his  death. 
Otto  Frank  lay  in  jail  without  bail.  The  Tribune  de- 
manded a  quick  trial  and  summary  execution,  calling  on 
the  prospective  jury  manfully  to  do  its  duty  and  dwelling 
at  length  on  the  moral  effect  that  would  be  so  produced 
upon  the  lawless  working  class.  It  went  further,  empha- 
sizing the  salutary  effect  machine  guns  would  have  on 
the  mob  that  had  taken  the  fair  city  of  Oakland  by  the 
throat. 

And  all  such  occurrences  struck  at  Saxon  personally, 
Practically  alone  in  the  world,  save  for  Billy,  it  was  her 
life,  and  his,  and  their  mutual  love-life,  that  was  menaced. 
From  the  moment  he  left  the  house  to  the  moment  of  his 
return  she  knew  no  peace  of  mind.  Rough  work  was 
afoot,  of  which  he  told  her  nothing,  and  she  knew  he  was 
playing  his  part  in  it.  On  more  than  one  occasion  she 
noticed  fresh-broken  skin  on  his  knuckles.  At  such  times 
he  was  remarkably  taciturn,  and  would  sit  in  brooding 
silence  or  go  almost  immediately  to  bed.  She  was  afraid 
to  have  this  habit  of  reticence  grow  on  him,  and  bravely 
she  bid  for  his  confidence.  She  climbed  into  his  lap  and 
inside  his  arms,  one  of  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and 
with  the  free  hand  she  caressed  his  hair  back  from  th« 
forehead  and  smoothed  out  the  moody  brows. 

"Now  listen  to  me,  Billy  Boy,"  she  began  lightly. 
*'You  haven't  been  playing  fair,  and  I  won't  have  it. 
No!"  She  pressed  his  lips  shut  with  her  -fingers.  "I'm 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     2<& 

doing  the  talking  now,  and  because  you  haven't  been,  do 
ing  your  share  of  the  talking  for  some  time.  You  re- 
member we  agreed  at  the  start  to  always  talk  things  over 
I  was  the  first  to  break  this,  when  I  sold  my  fancy  work 
to  Mrs.  Higgins  without  speaking  to  you  about  it.  And  I 
was  very  sorry.  I  am  still  sorry.  And  I've  never  done 
'it  since.  Now  it's  your  turn.  You're  not  talking  things 
over  with  me.  You  are  doing  things  you  don't  tell  nib 
about. 

"Billy,  you're  dearer  to  me  than  anything  else  in  th€ 
world.  You  know  that.  We're  sharing  each  other's  lives, 
only,  just  now,  there's  something  you're  not  sharing 
Every  time  your  knuckles  are  sore,  there's  something  you 
don't  share.  If  you  can't  trust  me,  you  can't  trust  any- 
body. And,  besides,  I  love  you  so  that  no  matter  what 
you  do  I'll  go  on  loving  you  just  the  same." 

Billy  gazed  at  her  with  fond  incredulity. 

' '  Don 't  be  a  pinch er, ' '  she  teased.  ' '  Remember,  I  stand 
for  whatever  you  do." 

"And  you  won't  buck  against  me?"  he  queried. 

"How  can  I?  I'm  not  ycur  boss,  Billy.  I  wouldn't 
boss  you  for  anything  in  the  world.  And  if  you'd  let 
me  boss  you,  I  wouldn't  love  you  half  as  much." 

He  digested  this  slowly,  and  finally  nodded. 

"An'  you  won't  be  mad?" 

"With  you?  You 've  never  seen  me  mad  yet.  Now  come 
on  and  be  generous  and  tell  me  how  you  hurt  your 
knuckles.  It's  fresh  to-day.  Anybody  can  see  that." 

"All  right.  I'll  tell  you  how  it  happened."  He 
stopped  and  giggled  with  genuine  boyish  glee  at  some 

recollection.    "It's  like  this.    You  won't  be  mad,  now? 

We  gotta  do  these  sort  of  things  to  hold  our  own.  Well, 
here's  the  show,  a  regular  movin'  picture  except  for  the 
talkin'.  Here's  a  big  rube  comin'  along,  hayseed  stickin* 
out  all  over,  hands  like  hams  an'  feet  like  Mississippi  gun- 
boats. He'd  make  half  as  much  again  as  me  in  size,  an' 
he's  young,  too.  Only  he  ain't  lookin'  for  trouble,  an'  he'g 
as  innocent  as  ...  well,  he's  the  innocentcst  scab 


210  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

that  ever  come  down  the  pike  an'  bumped  into  a  couple 
of  pickets.  Not  a  regular  strike-breaker,  you  see,  just  a 
big  rube  that's  read  the  bosses'  ads  an'  come  a-humpin'  to 
town  for  the  big  wages. 

"An'  here's  Bud  Strothers  an'  me  comin'  along.  We 
always  go  in  pairs  that  way,  an'  sometimes  bigger  bunches. 
I  flag  the  rube.  'Hello,'  says  I,  'lookin'  for  a  job?'  'You 
bet,'  says  he.  'Can  you  drive?'  'Yep.'  'Four  horses?' 
'Show  me  to  'em,'  says  he.  'No  josh,  now,'  says  I ;  'you're 
sure  wantin'  to  drive?'  'That's  what  I  come  to  town  for,' 
he  says.  'You're  the  man  we're  lookin'  for,'  says  L 
'Come  along,  an'  we'll  have  you  busy  in  no  time.' 

"You  see,  Saxon,  we  can't  pull  it  off  there,  because 
there's  Tom  Scanlon — you  know,  the  red-headed  cop — 
only  a  couple  of  blocks  away  an'  pipin'  us  off  though  not 
recognizin'  us.  So  away  we  go,  the  three  of  us,  Bud  an' 
me  leadin'  that  boob  to  take  our  jobs  away  from  us  I 
guess  nit.  We  turn  into  the  alley  back  of  Campwell's 
grocery.  Nobody  in  sight.  Bud  stops  short,  and  the  rube 
an'  me  stop. 

"  'I  don't  think  he  wants  to  drive,'  Bud  says,  consid- 
erin'.  An'  the  rube  says  quick,  'You  betcher  life  I  do.' 
'You're  dead  sure  you  want  that  job?'  I  says.  Yes,  he's 
dead  sure.  Nothin's  goin'  to  keep  him  away  from  that 
job.  Why,  that  job's  what  he  come  to  town  for,  an'  we 
can't  lead  him  to  it  too  quick. 

"  'Well,  my  friend,'  says  I,  'it's  my  sad  duty  to  inform 
you  that  you've  made  a  mistake.'  'How's  that?'  he 
says.  'Go  on,'  I  says;  'you're  standin'  on  your  foot.1 
And,  honest  to  God,  Saxon,  that  gink  looks  down  at  his  feet 
to  see.  'I  don't  understand,'  says  he.  'We're  goin'  to 
show  you,'  says  I. 

"An'  then — Biff!  Bang!  Bingo!  Swat!  Zooie!  Ker-slam- 
bango-blam!  Fireworks,  Fourth  of  July,  Kingdom  Come, 
blue  lights,  sky-rockets,  an'  hell  fire — just  like  that.  It 
don't  take  long  when  you're  scientific  an'  trained  to  tan- 
dem work.  Of  course  it's  hard  on  the  knuckles.  But 
nay,  Saxon,  if  you  'd  seen  that  rube  before  an '  after  you  'd 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      211 

thought  he  was  a  lightnin'  change  artist.  Laugh?  You'd 
a-busted." 

Billy  halted  to  give  vent  to  his  own  mirth.  Saxon  forced 
herself  to  join  with  him,  but  down  in  her  heart  was  hor- 
ror. Mercedes  was  right.  The  stupid  workers  wrangled 
and  snarled  over  jobs.  The  clever  masters  rode  in  auto- 
mobiles and  did  not  wrangle  and  snarl.  They  hired  other 
stupid  ones  to  do  the  wrangling  and  snarling  for  them. 
It  was  men  like  Bert  and  Frank  Davis,  like  Chester  John- 
son and  Otto  Frank,  like  Jelly  Belly  and  the  Pinkertons, 
like  Henderson  and  all  the  rest  of  the  scabs,  who  were 
beaten  up,  shot,  clubbed,  or  hanged.  Ah,  the  clever  ones 
were  very  clever.  Nothing  happened  to  them.  They  only 
rode  in  their  automobiles. 

"  'You  big  stiffs,'  the  rube  snivels  as  he  crawls  to  his 
feet  at  the  end,"  Billy  was  continuing.  "  'You  think  you 
still  want  that  job  ? '  I  ask.  He  shakes  his  head.  Then  I 
read  'm  the  riot  act:  'They's  only  one  thing  for  you  to 
do,  old  hoss,  an'  that's  beat  it.  D'ye  get  me?  Beat  it. 
Back  to  the  farm  for  you.  An'  if  you  come  monkeyin' 
around  town  again,  we'll  be  real  mad  at  you.  We  was 
only  foolin'  this  time.  But  next  time  we  catch  you  your 
awn  mother  won't  know  you  when  we  get  done  with  you.' 

"An' — say! — you  oughta  seen  'm  beat  it.  I  bet  he's 
goin'  yet.  An*  when  he  gets  back  to  Milpitas,  or  Sleepy 
Hollow,  or  wherever  he  hangs  out,  an'  tells  how  the  boys 
does  things  in  Oakland,  it's  dollars  to  doughnuts  they 
won't  be  a  rube  in  his  district  that'd  come  to  town  to 
'drive  if  they  offered  ten  dollars  an  hour." 

' '  It  was  awful, ' '  Saxon  said,  then  laughed  well-simulated 
'  appreciation. 

"But  that  was  nothin',"  Billy  went  on.  "A  bunch  of 
the  boys  caught  another  one  this  morning.  They  didn't  do 
a  thing  to  him.  My  goodness  gracious,  no.  In  less'n  two 
minutes  he  was  the  worst  wreck  they  ever  hauled  to  the 
receivin'  hospital.  The  evenin'  papers  gave  the  score: 
nose  broken,  three  bad  scalp  wounds,  front  teeth  out,  a 
broken  collarbone,  an'  two  broken  ribs.  Gee!  He  cer- 


212  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

fainly  got  all  that  was  comin'  to  him.  But  that's  nothin'. 
D'ye  want  to  know  what  the  Frisco  teamsters  did  in  the 
big  strike  before  the  Earthquake?  They  took  every  scab 
they  caught  an'  broke  both  his  arms  with  a  crowbar.  That 
was  so  he  couldn't  drive,  you  see.  Say,  the  hospitals  was 
filled  with  'em.  An'  the  teamsters  won  that  strike,  too." 

"But  is  it  necessary,  Billy,  to  be  so  terrible?  I  know 
they're  scabs,  and  that  they're  taking  the  bread  out  of 
the  strikers'  children's  mouths  to  put  in  their  own  chil- 
dren's mouths,  and  that  it  isn't  fair  and  all  that;  but 
just  the  same  is  it  necessary  to  be  so  .  .  .  terrible?" 

"Sure  thing,"  Billy  answered  confidently.  "We  just 
gotta  throw  the  fear  of  God  into  them — when  we  can 
do  it  without  bein'  caught." 

"And  if  you're  caught." 

"Then  the  union  hires  the  lawyers  to  defend  us,  though 
that  ain't  much  good  now,  for  the  judges  are  pretty  hos- 
tyle,  an'  the  papers  keep  hammerin'  away  at  them  to  give 
stiff er  an'  stiff er  sentences.  Just  the  same,  before  this 
strike's  over  there'll  be  a  whole  lot  of  guys  a-wishin'  they'd 
never  gone  scabbin'." 

Very  cautiously,  in  the  next  half  hour,  Saxon  tried  to 
feel  out  her  husband's  attitude,  to  find  if  he  doubted  the 
Tightness  of  the  violence  he  and  his  brother  teamsters 
committed.  But  Billy's  ethical  sanction  was  rock-bedded 
and  profound.  It  never  entered  his  head  that  he  was 
not  absolutely  right.  It  was  the  game.  Caught  in  its 
tangled  meshes,  he  could  see  no  other  way  to  play  it  than 
the  way  all  men  played  it.  He  did  not  stand  for  dyna- 
mite and  murder,  however.  But  then  the  unions  did  noln, 
stand  for  such.  Quite  naive  was  his  explanation  that  dy- 
namite and  murder  did  not  pay;  that  such  actions  al- 
ways brought  down  the  condemnation  of  the  public  and 
broke  the  strikes.  But  the  healthy  beating  up  of  a  scab, 
he  contended — the  "throwing  of  the  fear  of  God  into  a 
scab,"  as  he  expressed  it — was  the  only  right  and  proper 
thing  to  do. 

"Our  folks  never  had  to  do  such  things,"  Saxon  said 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      213 

finally.    ' '  They  never  had  strikes  nor  scabs  in  those  times. ' ' 
"You  bet  they  didn't,"  Billy  agreed.     "Them  was  the 

good  old  days.     I'd  liked  to  a-lived  then."     He  drew  a 

long  breath  and  sighed.    "But  them  times  will  never  come 

again. ' ' 

"Would  you  have  liked  living  in  the  country?"  Saxon 


"Sure  thing." 

"There's  lots  of  men  living  in  the  country  now,"  she 
suggested. 

"Just  the  same  I  notice  them  a-hikin*  to  town  to  get 
our  jobs,"  was  his  reply. 


CHAPTER   XII 

A  GLEAM  of  light  came,  when  Billy  got  a  job  driving 
a  grading  team  for  the  contractors  of  the  big  bridge  then 
building  at  Niles.  Before  he  went  he  made  certain  that 
it  was  a  union  job.  And  a  union  job  it  was  for  two  days, 
when  the  concrete  workers  threw  down  their  tools.  The 
contractors,  evidently  prepared  for  such  happening,  im- 
mediately filled  the  places  of  the  concrete  men  with  non- 
union Italians.  Whereupon  the  carpenters,  structural  iron- 
workers and  teamsters  walked  out ;  and  Billy,  lacking  train 
fare,  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  in  walking  home. 

"I  couldn't  work  as  a  scab,"  he  concluded  his  tale. 

"No,"  Saxon  said;  "you  couldn't  work  as  a  scab." 

But  she  wondered  why  it  was  that  when  men  wanted  to 
work,  and  there  was  work  to  do,  yet  they  were  unable  to 
Work  because  their  unions  said  no.  Why  were  there 
unions  ?  And,  if  unions  had  to  be,  why  were  not  all  work- 
ingmen  in  them  ?  Then  there  would  be  no  scabs,  and  Billy 
could  work  every  day.  Also,  she  wondered  where  she  was 
to  get  a  sack  of  flour,  for  she  had  long  since  ceased  the 
extravagance  of  baker's  bread.  And  so  many  other  of 
the  neighborhood  women  had  done  this,  that  the  little 
Welsh  baker  had  closed  up  shop  and  gone  away,  taking 
his  wife  and  two  little  daughters  with  him.  Look  where 
she  would,  everybody  was  being  hurt  by  the  industrial 
strife. 

One  afternoon  came  a  caller  at  her  door,  and  that 
evening  came  Billy  with  dubious  news.  He  had  been  ap- 
proached that  day.  All  he  had  to  do,  he  told  Saxon,  was 
to  say  the  word,  and  he  could  go  into  the  stable  as  fore- 
man at  one  hundred  dollars  a  month. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     215 

The  nearness  of  such  a  sum,  the  possibility  of  it,  was 
almost  stunning  to  Saxon,  sitting  at  a  supper  which  con- 
sisted of  boiled  potatoes,  warmed-over  beans,  and  a  small 
dry  onion  which  they  were  eating  raw.  There  was  neither 
bread,  coffee,  nor  butter.  The  onion  Billy  had  pulled 
from  his  pocket,  having  picked  it  up  in  the  street.  One 
hundred  dollars  a  month!  She  moistened  her  lips  and 
fought  for  control. 

"What  made  them  offer  it  to  you?"  she  questioned. 

"That's  easy,"  was  his  answer.  "They  got  a  dozen 
reasons.  The  guy  the  boss  has  had  exereisin'  Prince  and 
King  is  a  dub.  King  has  gone  lame  in  the  shoulders.  Then 
they're  guessin'  pretty  strong  that  I'm  the  party  that's 
put  a  lot  of  their  scabs  outa  commission.  Macklin's  ben 
their  foreman  for  years  an'  years — why  I  was  in  knee 
pants  when  he  was  foreman.  Well,  he's  sick  an'  all  in. 
They  gotta  have  somebody  to  take  his  place.  Then,  too, 
I've  been  with  'em  a  long  time.  An'  on  top  of  that,  I'm 
the  man  for  the  job.  They  know  I  know  horses  from  the 
ground  up.  Hell,  it's  all  I'm  good  for,  except  sluggin'." 

"Think  of  it,  Billy!"  she  breathed.  "A  hundred  dol- 
lars a  month!  A  hundred  dollars  a  month!" 

"An'  throw  the  fellows  down,"  he  said. 

It  was  not  a  question.  Nor  was  it  a  statement.  It  was 
anything  Saxon  chose  to  make  of  it.  They  looked  at  each 
other.  She  waited  for  him  to  speak;  but  he  continued 
merely  to  look.  It  came  to  her  that  she  was  facing  one 
of  the  decisive  moments  of  her  life,  and  she  gripped  her- 
self to  face  it  in  all  coolness.  Nor  would  Billy  proffer  her 
the  slightest  help.  Whatever  his  own  judgment  might 
be,  he  masked  it  with  an  expressionless  face.  His  eyes  be- 
trayed nothing.  He  looked  and  waited. 

"You  .  .  .  you  can't  do  that,  Billy,"  she  said 
finally.  "You  can't  throw  the  fellows  down." 

His  hand  shot  out  to  hers,  and  his  face  was  a  sudden, 
radiant  dawn. 

"Put  her  there!"  he  cried,  their  hands  meeting  and 
clasping.  "You're  the  truest  true  blue  wife  a  man  ever 


216  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

had.  If  all  the  other  fellows'  wives  was  like  you,  we  could 
win  any  strike  we  tackled." 

"AVhat  would  you  have  done  if  you  weren't  married, 
Billy?" 

"Seen  'em  in  hell  first." 

"Then  it  doesn't  make  any  difference  being  married. 
I  've  got  to  stand  by  you  in  everything  you  stand  for.  I  'd 
be  a  nice  wife  if  I  didn't." 

She  remembered  her  caller  of  the  afternoon,  and  knew 
the  moment  was  too  propitious  to  let  pass. 

"There  was  a  man  here  this  afternoon,  Billy.  He 
wanted  a  room.  I  told  him  I'd  speak  to  you.  He  said  he 
would  pay  six  dollars  a  month  for  the  back  bedroom.  That 
would  pay  half  a  month's  installment  on  the  furniture  and 
buy  a  sack  of  flour,  and  we're  all  out  of  flour." 

Billy's  old  hostility  to  the  idea  was  instantly  upper- 
most, and  Saxon  watched  him  anxiously. 

"Some  scab  in  the  shops,  I  suppose?" 

"No;  he's  firing  on  the  freight  run  to  San  Jose.  Har- 
mon, he  said  his  name  was,  James  Harmon.  They've  just 
transferred  him  from  the  Truckee  division.  He'll  sleep 
days  mostly,  he  said;  and  that's  why  he  wanted  a  quiet 
house  without  children  in  it." 

In  the  end,  with  much  misgiving,  and  only  after  Saxon 
had  insistently  pointed  out  how  little  work  it  entailed 
on  her,  Billy  consented,  though  he  continued  to  protest, 
as  an  afterthought: 

"But  I  dont  want  you  makin'  beds  for  any  man.  It 
ain't  right,  Saxon.  I  oughta  take  care  of  you." 

"And  you  would,"  she  flashed  back  at  him,  "if  you'd 
take  the  foremanship.  Only  you  can't.  It  wouldn't  be 
right.  And  if  I'm  to  stand  by  you  it's  only  fair  to  let 
me  do  what  I  can." 

James  Harmon  proved  even  less  a  bother  than  Saxon 
had  anticipated.  For  a  fireman  he  was  scrupulously  clean, 
always  washing  up  in  the  roundhouse  before  he  came  home. 
He  used  the  key  to  the  kitchen  door,  coming  and  going 
by  the  back  steps.  To  Saxon  he  barely  said  how-do-you-do 


THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOOtf  217 

or  good  day;  and,  sleeping  in  the  day  time  and  working 
at  night,  he  was  in  the  house  a  week  before  Billy  laid 
eyes  on  him. 

Billy  had  taken  to  coming  home  later  and  later,  and  to 
going  out  after  supper  by  himself.  He  did  not  offer  to  tell 
Saxon  where  he  went.  Nor  did  she  ask.  For  that  mat- 
ter, it  required  little  shrewdness  on  her  part  to  guess.  The 
fumes  of  whisky  were  on  his  lips  at  such  times.  His  slow, 
deliberate  ways  were  even  slower,  even  more  deliberate. 
Liquor  did  not  affect  his  legs.  He  walked  as  soberly  as 
any  man.  There  was  no  hesitancy,  no  faltering,  in  his 
muscular  movements.  The  whisky  went  to  his  brain, 
making  his  eyes  heavy-lidded  and  the  cloudiness  of  them 
more  cloudy.  Not  that  he  was  nighty,  nor  quick,  nor 
irritable.  On  the  contrary,  the  liquor  imparted  to  his 
mental  processes  a  deep  gravity  and  brooding  solemnity. 
He  talked  little,  but  that  little  was  ominous  and  oracular. 
At  such  times  there  was  no  appeal  from  his  judgment,  no 
discussion.  He  knew,  as  God  knew.  And  when  he  chose 
to  speak  a  harsh  thought,  it  was  ten-fold  harsher  than 
ordinarily,  because  it  seemed  to  proceed  out  of  such  pro- 
fundity of  cogitation,  because  it  was  as  prodigiously  de- 
liberate in  its  incubation  as  it  was  in  its  enunciation. 

It  was  not  a  nice  side  he  was  showing  to  Saxon.  It  was, 
almost,  as  if  a  stranger  had  come  to  live  with  her.  Despite 
herself,  she  found  herself  beginning  to  shrink  from  him. 
And  little  could  she  comfort  herself  with  the  thought  that 
it  was  not  his  real  self,  for  she  remembered  his  gentleness 
and  considerateness,  all  his  finenesses  of  the  past.  Then, 
he  had  made  a  continual  effort  to  avoid  trouble  and  fight- 
ing. Now  he  enjoyed  it,  exulted  in  it,  went  looking  for 
it.  All  this  showed  in  his  face.  No  longer  was  he  the 
smiling,  pleasant-faced  boy.  He  smiled  infrequently  now. 
His  face  was  a  man's  face.  The  lips,  the  eyes,  the  lines 
were  harsh  as  his  thoughts  were  harsh. 

He  was  rarely  unkind  to  Saxon ;  but,  on  the  other  hand, 
&e  was  rarely  kind.  His  attitude  toward  her  was  growing 
negative.  He  was  disinterested.  Desjnte  the  fi.srht  for 


218  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

the  union  she  was  enduring  with  him,  putting  up  with 
him  shoulder  to  shoulder,  she  occupied  but  little  space  in 
his  mind.  "When  he  acted  toward  her  gently,  she  could 
see  that  it  was  merely  mechanical,  just  as  she  was  well 
aware  that  the  endearing  terms  he  used,  the  endearing 
caresses  he  gave,  were  only  habitual.  The  spontaneity  and 
warmth  had  gone  out.  Often,  when  he  was  not  in  liquor, 
flashes  of  the  old  Billy  came  back,  but  even  such  flashes 
dwindled  in  frequency.  He  was  growing  preoccupied, 
moody.  Hard  times  and  the  bitter  stresses  of  industrial 
conflict  strained  him.  Especially  was  this  apparent  in 
his  sleep,  when  he  suffered  paroxysms  of  lawless  dreams, 
groaning  and  muttering,  clenching  his  fists,  grinding  his 
teeth,  twisting  with  muscular  tensions,  his  face  writhing 
with  passions  and  violences,  his  throat  guttering  with  ter- 
rible curses  that  rasped  and  aborted  on  his  lips.  And 
Saxon,  lying  beside  him,  afraid  of  this  visitor  to  her  bed 
whom  she  did  not  know,  remembered  what  Mary  had  told 
her  of  Bert.  He,  too,  had  cursed  and  clenched  his  fists, 
in  his  nights  fought  out  the  battles  of  his  days. 

One  thing,  however,  Saxon  saw  clearly.  By  no  deliber- 
ate act  of  Billy's  was  he  becoming  this  other  and  unlovely 
Billy.  "Were  there  no  strike,  no  snarling  and  wrangling 
over  jobs,  there  would  be  only  the  old  Billy  she  had  loved 
in  all  absoluteness.  This  sleeping  terror  in  him  would 
have  lain  asleep.  It  was  something  that  was  being  awak- 
ened in  him,  an  image  incarnate  of  outward  conditions,  as 
cruel,  as  ugly,  as  maleficent  as  were  those  outward  condi- 
tions. But  if  the  strike  continued,  then,  she  feared,  with 
reason,  would  this  other  and  grisly  self  of  Billy  strengthen 
to  fuller  and  more  forbidding  stature.  And  this,  she  knew, 
would  mean  the  wreck  of  their  love-life.  Such  a  Billy  she 
could  not  love ;  in  its  nature  such  a  Billy  was  not  lovable 
nor  capable  of  love.  And  then,  at  the  thought  of  off- 
spring, she  shuddered.  It  was  too  terrible.  And  at  such 
moments  of  contemplation,  from  her  soul  the  inevitable 
plaint  of  the  human  went  up:  Why?  Why?  Why? 

Billy,  too,  had  his  unanswerable  queries. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     219 

"Why  won't  the  building  trades  come  out?"  he  de- 
manded wrathfully  of  the  obscurity  that  veiled  the  ways 
of  living  and  the  world.  "But  no;  O'Brien  won't  stand 
for  a  strike,  and  he  has  the  Building  Trades  Council  under 
his  thumb.  But  why  don't  they  chuck  him  and  come  out 
anyway?  We'd  win  hands  down  all  along  the  line.  But 
no,  O'Brien's  got  their  goat,  an'  him  up  to  his  dirty  neck 
in  politics  an'  graft!  An'  damn  the  Federation  of  Labor! 
If  all  the  railroad  boys  had  come  out,  wouldn't  the  shop 

men  have  won  instead  of  bein'  licked  to  a  frazzle?  • 

Lord,  I  ain  't  had  a  smoke  of  decent  tobacco  or  a  cup  of  de- 
cent coffee  in  a  coon's  age.  I've  forgotten  what  a  square 
meal  tastes  like.  I  weighed  myself  yesterday.  Fifteen 
pounds  lighter  than  when  the  strike  begun.  If  it  keeps  on 
mu«h  more  I  can  fight  middleweight.  An'  this  is  what  I 
get  after  payin'  dues  into  the  union  for  years  and  years.  I 
can't  get  a  square  meal,  an'  my  wife  has  to  make  other 
men's  beds.  It  makes  my  tired  ache.  Some  day  I'll  get 
real  huffy  an'  chuck  that  lodger  out." 

"But  it's  not  his  fault,  Billy,"  Saxon  protested. 

"Who  said  it  was?"  Billy  snapped  roughly.  "Can't 
I  kick  in  general  if  I  want  to?  Just  the  same  it  makes  me 
sick.  What's  the  good  of  organized  labor  if  it  don't  stand 
together?  For  two  cents  I'd  chuck  the  whole  thing  up 
an'  go  over  to  the  employers.  Only  I  wouldn't,  God 
damn  them!  If  they  think  they  can  beat  us  down  to  our 
knees,  let  'em  go  ahead  an'  try  it,  that's  all.  But  it  gets 
me  just  the  same.  The  whole  world's  clean  dippy.  They 
ain't  no  sense  in  anything.  What's  the  good  of  supportin' 
a  union  that  can't  win  a  strike?  What's  the  good  of 
knockin'  the  blocks  off  of  scabs  when  they  keep  a-comin* 
thick  as  ever?  The  whole  thing's  bughouse,  an'  I  guess  T 
am,  too." 

Such  an  outburst  on  Billy's  part  was  so  unusual  that  it 
was  the  only  time  Saxon  knew  it  to  occur.  Always  he 
•was  sullen,  and  dogged,  and  unwhipped ;  while  whisky 
only  served  to  set  the  maggots  of  certitude  crawling  in  his 
brain. 


220  THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

One  night  Billy  did  not  get  home  till  after  twelve. 
Saxon's  anxiety  was  increased  by  the  fact  that  police 
fighting  and  head  breaking  had  been  reported  to  have  oc- 
curred. "When  Billy  came,  his  appearance  verified  the 
report.  His  coatsleeves  were  half  torn  off.  The  Windsor 
tie  had  disappeared  from  under  his  soft  turned-down  col- 
lar, and  every  button  had  been  ripped  off  the  front  of  the 
shirt.  When  he  took  his  hat  off,  Saxon  was  frightened  by 
a  lump  on  his  head  the  size  of  an  apple. 

"D'ye  know  who  did  that?  That  Dutch  slob  Her- 

manmann,  with  a  riot  club.  An'  I'll  get  'm  for  it  some 
day,  good  an'  plenty.  An'  there's  another  fellow  I  got 
staked  out  that'll  be  my  meat  when  this  strike's  over  an' 
things  is  settled  down.  Blanchard's  his  name,  Roy 
Blanchard. ' ' 

"Not  of  Blanchard,  Perkins  and  Company?"  Saxon 
asked,  busy  washing  Billy's  hurt  and  making  her  usual 
fight  to  keep  him  calm. 

"Yep;  except  he's  the  son  of  the  old  man.  What's  he 
do,  that  ain't  done  a  tap  of  work  in  all  his  life  except  to 
blow  the  old  man's  money?  He  goes  strike-breakin'. 
Grandstand  play,  that's  what  I  call  it.  Gets  his  name 
in  the  papers  an'  makes  all  the  skirts  he  runs  with  fluster 
up  an'  say:  'My!  Some  bear,  that  Roy  Blanchard,  some 
bear.'  Some  bear — the  gazabo!  He'll  be  bear-meat  for 
me  some  day.  I  never  itched  so  hard  to  lick  a  man  in 
my  life. 

"And — oh,  I  guess  I'll  pass  that  Dutch  cop  up.  He 
got  his  already.  Somebody  broke  his  head  with  a  lump 
of  coal  the  size  of  a  water  bucket.  That  was  when  the 
wagons  was  turnin'  into  Franklin,  just  off  Eighth,  by  the 
old  Galindo  Hotel.  They  was  hard  fightin'  there,  an' 
some  guy  in  the  hotel  lams  that  coal  down  from  the  sec- 
ond story  window. 

"They  was  fightin'  every  block  of  the  way — bricks,  cob- 
blestones, an'  police-clubs  to  beat  the  band.  They  don't 
dast  call  out  the  troops.  An'  they  was  afraid  to  shoot. 
Why,  w<?  tore  holes  through  the  police  force,  an'  the 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON  22V 

ambulances  and  patrol  wagons  worked  over-time.  But  say, 
we  got  the  procession  blocked  at  Fourteenth  and  Broad- 
way, right  under  the  nose  of  the  City  Hall,  rushed  the 
rear  end,  cut  out  the  horses  of  five  wagons,  an'  handed 
them  college  guys  a  few  love-pats  in  passin'.  All  that 
saved  'em  from  hospital  was  the  police  reserves.  Jnst 
the  same  we  had  'em  jammed  an  hour  there.  You  oughta1 
seen  the  street  cars  blocked,  too — Broadway,  Fourteenth, 
San  Pablo,  as  far  as  you  could  see." 

"But  what  did  Blanchard  do?"  Saxon  called  him  back. 

"He  led  the  procession,  an'  he  drove  my  team.  All  the 
teams  was  from  my  stable.  He  rounded  up  a  lot  of  them 
college  fellows — fraternity  guys,  they're  called — yaps  that 
live  off  their  fathers'  money.  They  come  to  the  stable  in 
big  tourin'  cars  an'  drove  out  the  wagons  with  half  the 
police  of  Oakland  to  help  them.  Say,  it  was  sure  some 
day.  The  sky  rained  cobblestones.  An'  you  oughta  heard 
the  clubs  on  our  heads — rat-tat-tat-tat,  rat-tat-tat- tat !  An' 
say,  the  chief  of  police,  in  a  police  auto,  sittin'  up  like 
God  Almighty — just  before  we  got  to  Peralta  street  they 
was  a  block  an '  the  police  chargin ',  an '  an  old  woman,  right 
from  her  front  gate,  lammed  the  chief  of  police  full  in 
the  face  with  a  dead  cat.  Phew!  You  could  hear  it. 
'Arrest  that  woman!'  he  yells,  with  his  handkerchief  out. 
But  the  boys  beat  the  cops  to  her  an'  got  her  away.  Some 
day?  I  guess  yes.  The  receivin'  hospital  went  outa  com- 
mission on  the  jump,  an'  the  overflow  was  spilled  into  St. 
Mary's  Hospital,  an'  Fabiola,  an'  I  don't  know  where  else.. 
Eight  of  our  men  was  pulled,  an'  a  dozen  of  the  Frisco 
teamsters  that's  come  over  to  help.  They're  holy  terrors, 
them  Frisco  teamsters.  It  seemed  half  the  workingmen 
of  Oakland  was  helpin'  us,  an'  they  must  be  an  army  of 
therm  in  jail.  Our  lawyers '11  have  to  take  their  cases,  too. 

"But  take  it  from  me,  it's  the  last  we'll  see  of  Roy 
Blanchard  an'  yaps  of  his  kidney  buttin'  into  our  affairs. 
I  guess  we  showed  'em  some  football.  You  know  that 
brick  buildin'  they're  puttin'  up  on  Bay  street?  That's 
where  we  loaded  up  first,  an',  say,  you  couldn't  see  the 


222  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

wagon-seats  for  bricks  when  they  started  from  the  stables. 
Blanchard  drove  the  first  wagon,  an'  he  was  knocked  clean 
off  the  seat  once,  but  he  stayed  with  it." 

"He  must  have  been  brave,"  Saxon  commented. 

"Brave?"  Billy  flared.  "With  the  police,  an'  the  army 
an'  navy  behind  him?  I  suppose  you'll  be  takin'  their 
part  next.  Brave?  A-takin'  the  food  outa  the  mouths 
of  our  women  an'  children.  Didn't  Curley  Jones's  little 
kid  die  last  night?  Mother's  milk  not  nourishin',  that's 
what  it  was,  because  she  didn't  have  the  right  stuff  to  eat. 
An'  I  know,  an'  you  know,  a  dozen  old  aunts,  an'  sister- 
in-laws,  an'  such,  that's  had  to  hike  to  the  poorhouse  be- 
cause their  folks  couldn  't  take  care  of  'em  in  these  times. ' ' 

In  the  morning  paper  Saxon  read  the  exciting  account 
of  the  futile  attempt  to  break  the  teamsters'  strike.  Boy 
Blanchard  was  hailed  a  hero  and  held  up  as  a  model  of 
wealthy  citizenship.  And  to  save  herself  she  could  not 
help  glowing  with  appreciation  of  his  courage.  There  was 
something  fine  in  his  going  out  to  face  the  snarling  pack. 
A  brigadier  general  of  the  regular  army  was  quoted  as 
lamenting  the  fact  that  the  troops  had  not  been  called  out 
to  take  the  mob  by  the  throat  and  shake  law  and  order 
into  it.  "This  is  the  time  for  a  little  healthful  blood- 
letting," was  the  conclusion  of  his  remarks,  after  deplor- 
ing the  pacific  methods  of  the  police.  "For  not  until 
the  mob  has  been  thoroughly  beaten  and  cowed  will  tran- 
quil industrial  conditions  obtain." 

That  evening  Saxon  and  Billy  went  up  town.  Return- 
ing home  and  finding  nothing  to  eat,  he  had  taken  her 
on  one  arm,  his  overcoat  on  the  other.  The  overcoat  he 
had  pawned  at  Uncle  Sam's,  and  he  and  Saxon  had  eaten 
drearily  at  a  Japanese  restaurant  which  in  some  mirac- 
ulous way  managed  to  set  a  semi-satisfying  meal  for  ten 
cents.  After  eating,  they  started  on  their  way  to  spend 
an  additional  five  cents  each  on  a  moving  picture  show. 

At  the  Central  Bank  Building,  two  striking  teamsters 
accosted  Billy  and  took  him  away  with  them.  Saxon 
waited  on  the  corner,  and  when  he  returned,  three  quarters 
of  an  hour  later,  she  knew  be  had  been  drinking. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     223 

Half  a  block  on,  passing  the  Forum  Cafe,  he  stopped 
suddenly.  A  limousine  stood  at  the  curb,  and  into  it  a 
young  man  was  helping  several  wonderfully  gowned  wom- 
en. A  chauffeur  sat  in  the  driver's  seat.  Billy  touched 
ihe  young  man  on  the  arm.  He  was  as  broad-shouldered 
as  Billy  and  slightly  taller.  Blue-eyed,  strong-featured, 
in  Saxon's  opinion  he  was  undeniably  handsome. 

"Just  a  word,  sport,"  Billy  said,  in  a  low,  slow  voice. 

The  young  man  glanced  quickly  at  Billy  and  Saxon,  and 
asked  impatiently: 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"You're  Blanchard,"  Billy  began.  "I  seen  you  yester- 
day lead  out  that  bunch  of  teams." 

"Didn't  I  do  it  all  right?"  Blanchard  asked  gaily, 
with  a  flash  of  glance  to  Saxon  and  back  again. 

"Sure-    But  that  ain't  what  I  want  to  talk  about." 

"Who  are  you?"  the  other  demanded  with  sudden  sus- 
picion. 

"A  striker.    It  just  happens  you  drove  my  team,  that's 

all.    No;  don't  move  for  a  gun."     (As  Blanchard  half 

reached  toward  his  hip  pocket.)    "I  ain't  startin'  anythin* 
tare.     But  I  just  want  to  tell  you  something." 

"Be  quick,  then." 

Blanchard  lifted  one  foot  to  step  into  the  machine. 

"Sure,"  Billy  went  on  without  any  diminution  of  hi* 
exasperating  slowness.  "What  I  want  to  tell  you  is  that 
Vin  after  you.  Not  now,  when  the  strike's  on.  but  some 
time  later  I'm  goin'  to  get  you  an'  give  you  the  beatin' 
•of  your  life." 

Blanchard  looked  Billy  over  with  new  interest  and) 
measuring  eyes  that  sparkled  with  appreciation. 

"You  are  a  husky  yourself,"  he  said.  "But  do  you 
think  you  can  do  it?" 

"Sure.    You're  my  meat." 

"All  right,  then,  my  friend.  Look  me  up  after  the 
strike  is  settled,  and  I'll  give  you  a  chance  at  me." 

"Remember,"  Billy  added,  "I  got  you  staked  out." 

Blanchard  nodded,  smiled  genially  to  both  of  them,, 
raised  his  hat  to  Saxon,  and  stepped  into  the  machine. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

PROM  now  on,  to  Saxon,  life  seemed  bereft  of  its  la«t 
reason  and  rhyme.  It  had  become  senseless,  nightmarish, 
Anything  irrational  was  possible.  There  was  nothing  sta- 
ble in  the  anarchic  flux  of  affairs  that  swept  her  on  she 
knew  not  to  what  catastrophic  end.  Had  Billy  been  de- 
pendable, all  would  still  have  been  well.  With  him  to  cling 
to  she  would  have  faced  everything  fearlessly.  But  he 
had  been  whirled  away  from  her  in  the  prevailing  mad- 
ness. So  radical  was  the  change  in  him  that  he  seemed 
almost  an  intruder  in  the  house.  Spiritually  he  was  such 
an  intruder.  Another  man  looked  out  of  his  eyes — a  man 
whose  thoughts  were  of  violence  and  hatred;  a  man  to 
whom  there  was  no  good  in  anything,  and  who  had  be- 
come an  ardent  protagonist  of  the  evil  that  was  rampant 
and  universal.  This  man  no  longer  condemned  Bert,  him- 
self muttering  vaguely  of  dynamite,  and  sabotage,  and 
revolution. 

Saxon  strove  to  maintain  that  sweetness  and  coolness  of 
flesh  and  spirit  that  Billy  had  praised  in  the  old  days. 
Once,  only,  she  lost  control.  He  had  been  in  a  particularly- 
ugly  mood,  and  a  final  harshness  and  unfairness  cut  her 
to  the  quick. 

"Who  are  you  speaking  to?"  she  flamed  out  at  him. 

He  was  speechless  and  abashed,  and  could  only  stars 
at  her  face,  which  was  white  with  anger. 

"Don't  you  ever  speak  to  me  like  that  again,  Billy,"  she 
commanded. 

"Aw,  can't  you  put  up  with  a  piece  of  bad  temper?" 
he  muttered,  half  apologetically,  yet  half  defiantly.  "God 
knows  I  got  enough  to  make  me  cranky." 

After  he  left  the  house  she  flung  herself  on  the  bed 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     225 

and  cried  heart-brokenly.  For  she,  who  knew  so  thor- 
oughly the  humility  of  love,  was  a  proud  woman.  Only 
the  proud  can  be  truly  humble,  as  only  the  strong  may 
know  the  fullness  of  gentleness.  But  what  was  the  use,  she 
demanded,  of  being  proud  and  game,  when  the  only  person 
in  the  world  who  mattered  to  her  lost  his  own  pride  and 
gameness  and  fairness  and  gave  her  the  worse  share  of 
their  mutual  trouble? 

And  now,  as  she  had  faced  alone  the  deeper,  organic 
hurt  of  the  loss  of  her  baby,  she  faced  alone  another,  and, 
in  a  way,  an  even  greater  personal  trouble.  Perhaps  she 
loved  Billy  none  the  less,  but  her  love  was  changing  into 
something  less  proud,  less  confident,  less  trusting;  it  was 
becoming  shot  through  with  pity — with  the  pity  that  is 
parent  to  contempt.  Her  own  loyalty  was  threatening 
to  weaken,  and  she  shuddered  and  shrank  from  the  con- 
tempt she  could  see  creeping  in. 

She  struggled  to  steel  herself  to  face  the  situation. 
Forgiveness  stole  into  her  heart,  and  she  knew  relief  until 
the  thought  came  that  in  the  truest,  highest  love  forgiveness 
should  have  no  place.  And  again  she  cried,  and  continued 
her  battle.  After  all,  one  thing  was  incontestable:  This 
Billy  was  not  the  Billy  she  had  loved.  This  Billy  was 
another  man,  a  sick  man,  and  no  more  to  be  held  respon- 
sible than  a  fever-patient  in  the  ravings  of  delirium.  She 
must  be  Billy's  nurse,  without  pride,  without  contempt, 
with  nothing  to  forgive.  Besides,  he  was  really  bearing 
the  brunt  of  the  fight,  was  in  the  thick  of  it,  dizzy  with, 
the  striking  of  blows  and  the  blows  he  received.  If  fault 
there  was,  it  lay  elsewhere,  somewhere  in  the  tangled 
scheme  of  things  that  made  men  snarl  over  jobs  like  dogs 
over  bones. 

So  Saxon  arose  and  buckled  on  her  armor  again  for  the 
hardest  fight  of  all  in  the  world's  arena — the  woman's 
fight.  She  ejected  from  her  thought  all  doubting  and 
distrust.  She  forgave  nothing,  for  there  was  nothing 
requiring  forgiveness.  She  pledged  herself  to  an  absolute- 
ness of  belief  that  her  love  and  Billy's  was  unsullied, 


226  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

unperturbed — serene  as  it  had  always  been,  as  it  would 
be  when  it  came  back  again  after  the  world  settled  down 
once  more  to  rational  ways. 

That  night,  when  he  came  home,  she  proposed,  as  an 
emergency  measure,  that  she  should  resume  her  needle- 
^work  and  help  keep  the  pot  boiling  until  the  strike  was 
over.  But  Billy  would  hear  nothing  of  it. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  assured  her  repeatedly.  "They 
ain't  no  call  for  you  to  work.  I'm  goin'  to  get  some 
money  before  the  week  is  out.  An'  I'll  turn  it  over  to  you. 
An'  Saturday  night  we'll  go  to  the  show — a  real  show, 
no  movin'  pictures.  Harvey's  nigger  minstrels  is  comin' 
to  town.  We'll  go  Saturday  night.  I'll  have  the  money 
before  that,  as  sure  as  beans  is  beans." 

Friday  evening  he  did  not  come  home  to  supper,  which 
Saxon  regretted,  for  Maggie  Donahue  had  returned  a 
pan  of  potatoes  and  two  quarts  of  flour  (borrowed  the 
week  before),  and  it  was  a  hearty  meal  that  awaited  him. 
Saxon  kept  the  stove  going  till  nine  o'clock,  when,  despite 
her  reluctance,  she  went  to  bed.  Her  preference  would 
have  been  to  wait  up,  but  she  did  not  dare,  knowing  full 
well  what  the  effect  would  be  on  him  did  he  come  home 
in  liquor. 

The  clock  had  just  struck  one,  when  she  heard  the  click 
of  the  gate.  Slowly,  heavily,  ominously,  she  heard  him 
come  up  the  steps  and  fumble  with  his  key  at  the  door. 
He  entered  the  bedroom,  and  she  heard  him  sigh  as  he 
sat  down.  She  remained  quiet,  for  she  had  learned  the 
hypersensitiveness  induced  by  drink  and  was  fastidiously 
careful  not  to  hurt  him  even  with  the  knowledge  that  she 
had  lain  awake  for  him.  It  was  not  easy.  Her  hands  were 
clenched  till  the  nails  dented  the  palms,  and  her  body 
was  rigid  in  her  passionate  effort  for  control.  Never  had 
he  come  home  as  bad  as  this. 

"Saxon,"  he  called  thickly.    "Saxon." 

She  stirred  and  yawned. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"Won't  you  strike  a  light?    My  fingers  is  all  thumbs." 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     227 

Without  looking  at  him,  she  complied;  but  so  violent 
was  the  nervous  trembling  of  her  hands  that  the  glass 
chimney  tinkled  against  the  globe  and  the  match  went  out. 

"I  ain't  drunk,  Saxon,"  he  said  in  the  darkness,  a  hint 
of  amusement  in  his  thick  voice.  "I've  only  had  two  or 
three  jolts  ...  of  that  sort." 

On  her  second  attempt  with  the  lamp  she  succeeded. 
When  she  turned  to  look  at  him  she  screamed  with  fright. 
Though  she  had  heard  his  voice  and  knew  him  to  be  Billy, 
for  the  instant  she  did  not  recognize  him.  His  face  was 
a  face  she  had  never  known.  Swollen,  bruised,  discolored, 
every  feature  had  been  beaten  out  of  all  semblance  of  fa- 
miliarity. One  eye  was  entirely  closed,  the  other  showed 
through  a  narrow  slit  of  blood-congested  flesh.  One  ear 
seemed  to  have  lost  most  of  its  skin.  The  whole  face  was 
a  swollen  pulp.  His  right  jaw,  in  particular,  was  twice  the 
size  of  the  left.  No  wonder  his  speech  had  been  thick, 
was  her  thought,  as  she  regarded  the  fearfully  cut  and 
swollen  lips  that  still  bled.  She  was  sickened  by  the  sight, 
and  her  heart  went  out  to  him  in  a  great  wave  of  tender- 
ness. She  wanted  to  put  her  arms  around  him,  and  cuddle 
and  soothe  him;  but  her  practical  judgment  bade  other- 
wise. 

"You  poor,  poor  boy,"  she  cried.  "Tell  me  what  you 
want  me  to  do  first.  I  don't  know  about  such  things." 

"If  you  could  help  me  get  my  clothes  off,"  he  sug- 
gested meekly  and  thickly.  "I  got  'em  on  before  I  stif- 
fened up." 

"And  then  hot  water — that  will  be  good,"  she  said,  as 
she  began  gently  drawing  his  coat  sleeve  over  a  puffed 
and  helpless  hand. 

"I  told  you  they  was  all  thumbs,"  he  grimaced,  holding 
np  his  hand  and  squinting  at  it  with  the  fraction  of  sight 
remaining  to  him. 

"You  sit  and  wait,"  she  said,  "till  I  start  the  fire  and 
get  the  hot  water  going.  I  won't  be  a  minute.  Thea 
I'll  finish  getting  your  clothes  off." 

From  the  kitchen  she  could  hear  him  mumbling  to  him- 


228  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

self,  and  when  she  returned  he  was  repeating  over  and 
over: 

" "We  needed  the  money,  Saxon.    "We  needed  the  money." 

Drunken  he  was  not,  she  could  see  that,  and  from  his 
babbling  she  knew  he  was  partly  delirious. 

"He  was  a  surprise  box,"  he  wandered  on,  while  she 
proceeded  to  undress  him;  and  bit  by  bit  she  was  able 
to  piece  together  what  had  happened.  "He  was  an  un- 
known from  Chicago.  They  sprang  him  on  me.  The  sec- 
retary of  the  Acme  Club  warned  me  I'd  have  my  hands 
full.  An'  I'd  a- won  if  I'd  been  in  condition.  But  fifteen 
pounds  off  without  trainin '  ain  't  condition.  Then  I  'd  been 
drinkin'  pretty  regular,  an'  I  didn't  have  my  wind." 

But  Saxon,  stripping  his  undershirt,  no  longer  heard 
him.  As  with  his  face,  she  could  not  recognize  his  splen- 
didly muscled  back.  The  white  sheath  of  silken  skin  was 
torn  and  bloody.  The  lacerations  occurred  oftenest  in 
horizontal  lines,  though  there  were  perpendicular  lines  as 
well. 

"How  did  you  get  all  that?"  she  asked. 

"The  ropes.  I  was  up  against  'em  more  times  than  I 
like  to  remember.  Gee !  He  certainly  gave  me  mine.  But 
I  fooled  'm.  He  couldn't  put  me  out.  I  lasted  the  twenty 
rounds,  an'  I  wanta  tell  you  he's  got  some  marks  to  re- 
member me  by.  If  he  ain't  got  a  couple  of  knuckles  broke 

in  the  left  hand  I'm  a  geezer.  Here,  feel  my  head  here 

Swollen,  eh?     Sure  thing.     He  hit  that  more  times  than 

he's  wishin'  he  had  right  now.    But,  oh,  what  a  lacin' ! 

'What  a  lacin'!    I  never  had  anything  like  it  before.     The 

Chicago  Terror,  they  call   'm.     I  take  my  hat  off  to   'm. 

,He's  some  bear.     But  I  could  a-made  'm  take  the  count 

if  I'd  ben  in  condition  an'  had  my  wind.    Oh !    Ouch ! 

Watch  out!    It's  like  a  boil!" 

Fumbling  at  his  waistband,  Saxon's  hand  had  come  in 
contact  with  a  brightly  inflamed  surface  larger  than  a 
soup  plate. 

' '  That 's  from  the  kidney  blows, ' '  Billy  explained.  ' '  He 
was  a  regular  devil  at  it.  'Most  every  clench,  like  clock 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      229 

work,  down  he'd  chop  one  on  me.  It  got  so  sore  I  was 
wincin'  .  .  .  until  I  got  groggy  an'  didn't  know  much, 
of  anything.  It  ain't  a  knockout  blow,  you  know,  but 
it's  awful  wearin'  in  a  long  fight.  It  takes  the  starch  out 
of  you." 

When  his  knees  were  bared,  Saxon  could  see  the  skin 
across  the  knee-caps  was  broken  and  gone. 

"The  skin  ain't  made  to  stand  a  heavy  fellow  like  me 
on  the  knees,"  he  volunteered.  "An'  the  rosin  in  the 
canvas  cuts  like  Sam  Hill." 

The  tears  were  in  Saxon's  eyes,  and  she  could  have 
cried  over  the  manhandled  body  of  her  beautiful  sick  boy. 

As  she  cari-ied  his  pants  across  the  room  to  hang  them 
up,  a  jingle  of  money  came  from  them.  He  called  her 
back,  and  from  the  pocket  drew  forth  a  handful  of  silver. 

"We  needed  the  money,  we  needed  the  money,"  he 
kept  muttering,  as  he  vainly  tried  to  count  the  coins ;  and 
Saxon  knew  that  his  mind  was  wandering  again. 

It  cut  her  to  the  heart,  for  she  could  not  but  remember 
thf  harsh  thoughts  that  had  threatened  her  loyalty  dur- 
ing the  week  past.  After  all,  Billy,  the  splendid  physical 
man,  was  only  a  boy,  her  boy.  And  he  had  faced  and 
endured  all  this  terrible  punishment  for  her,  for  the  house 
and  the  furniture  that  were  their  house  and  furniture.  He 
said  so,  now,  when  he  scarcely  knew  what  he  said.  He 
said  "  We  needed  the  money."  She  was  not  so  absent  from 
his  thoughts  as  she  had  fancied.  Here,  down  to  the  naked 
tie-ribs  of  his  soul,  when  he  was  half  unconscious,  the 
thought  of  her  persisted,  was  uppermost.  We  needed  the 
money.  We! 

The  tears  were  trickling  down  her  cheeks  as  she  bent 
over  him,  and  it  seemed  she  had  never  loved  him  so  much 
as  now. 

"Here;  you  count,"  he  said,  abandoning  the  effort  and 
handing  the  money  to  her.  "  ...  How  much  do 
you  make  it?" 

"Nineteen  dollars  and  thirty- five  cents." 

"That's  right     ...     the  loser's  end     .     .     -    twenty 


230  THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

dollars.  I  had  some  drinks,  an'  treated  a  couple  of  the 
boys,  an'  then  there  was  carfare.  If  I'd  a-won,  I'd  a-got 
a  hundred.  That's  what  I  fought  for.  It'd  a-put  us 
on  Easy  street  for  a  while.  You  take  it  an'  keep  it.  It's 
better'n  nothin'." 

In  bed,  he  could  not  -sleep  because  of  his  pain,  and  hour 
by  hour  she  worked  over  him,  renewing  the  hot  com- 
presses over  his  bruises,  soothing  the  lacerations  with  witch 
hazel  and  cold  cream  and  the  tenderest  of  finger  tips.  And 
all  the  while,  with  broken  intervals  of  groaning,  he  bab- 
bled on,  living  over  the  fight,  seeking  relief  in  telling  her 
his  trouble,  voicing  regret  at  loss  of  the  money,  and  crying 
out  the  hurt  to  his  pride.  Far  worse  than  the  sum  of 
his  physical  hurts  was  his  hurt  pride. 

"He  couldn't  put  me  out,  anyway.  He  had  full  swing 
at  me  in  the  times  when  I  was  too  much  in  to  get  my 
hands  up.  The  crowd  was  crazy.  I  showed  'em  some 
stamina.  They  was  times  when  he  only  rocked  me,  for 
I'd  evaporated  plenty  of  his  steam  for  him  in  the  openin' 
rounds.  I  don't  know  how  many  times  he  dropped  me. 
Things  was  gettin'  too  dreamy.  .  .  . 

"Sometimes,  toward  the  end,  I  could  see  three  of  him 
in  the  ring  at  once,  an'  I  wouldn't  know  which  to  hit 
an'  which  to  duck.  .  .  . 

"But  I  fooled  'm.  When  I  couldn't  see,  or  feel,  an' 
when  my  knees  was  shakin'  an'  my  head  goin'  like  a 
merry-go-round,  I'd  fall  safe  into  clenches  just  the  same. 
I  bet  the  referee's  arms  is  tired  from  draggin'  us 
apart.  .  .  . 

"But  what  a  lacin'!  What  a  lacin'!  Say,  Saxon 

.  .  .  where  are  you?  Oh,  there,  eh?  I  guess  I  was 
dreamin'.  But,  say,  let  this  be  a  lesson  to  you.  I  broke 
my  word  an'  went  fightin',  an'  see  what  I  got.  Look  at 
me.  an'  take  warnin'  so  you  won't  make  the  same  mistake 
an'  go  to  makin'  an'  sellin'  fancy  work  again.  .  .  . 

"But  I  fooled  'em — everybody.  At  the  beginnin'  the 
bettin'  was  even.  By  the  sixth  round  the  wise  gazabos  was 
offerin'  two  to  one  against  me.  I  was  licked  from  the 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     231 

first  drop  outa  the  box — anybody  could  see  that;  but  he 
couldn't  put  me  down  for  the  count.  By  the  tenth  round 
they  was  offerin'  even  that  I  wouldn't  last  the  round. 
At  the  eleventh  they  was  offerin'  I  wouldn't  last  the  fif- 
teenth. An'  I  lasted  the  whole  twenty.  But  some  pun- 
ishment, I  want  to  tell  you,  some  punishment.  .  .  . 

""Why,  they  was  four  rounds  I  was  in  dreamland  all 
the  time  .  .  .  only  I  kept  on  my  feet  an'  fought,  or 
took  the  count  to  eight  an'  got  up,  an'  stalled  an'  covered 
an'  whanged  away.  I  don't  know  what  I  done,  except  I 
must  a-done  like  that,  because  I  wasn't  there.  I  don't 
know  a  thing  from  the  thirteenth,  when  he  sent  me  to 
the  mat  on  my  head,  till  the  eighteenth.  .  .  . 

"Where  was  I?  Oh,  yes.  I  opened  my  eyes,  or  one 
eye,  because  I  had  only  one  that  would  open.  An'  there 
I  was,  in  my  corner,  with  the  towels  goin'  an  ammonia  in 
my  nose  an'  Bill  Murphy  with  a  chunk  of  ice  at  the  back 
of  my  neck.  An'  there,  across  the  ring,  I  could  see  the 
Chicago  Terror,  an'  I  had  to  do  some  thinkin'  to  remem- 
ber I  was  fightin'  him.  It  was  like  I'd  been  away  some- 
where an'  just  got  back.  'What  round's  this  comin'?'  I 
ask  Bill.  'The  eighteenth,'  says  he.  'The  hell,'  I  says. 
'What's  come  of  all  the  other  rounds?  The  last  I  was 
fightin'  in  was  the  thirteenth.'  'You're  a  wonder,'  says 
Bill.  'You've  ben  out  four  rounds,  only  nobody  knows  it 
except  me.  I've  ben  tryin'  to  get  you  to  quit  all  the 
time.'  Just  then  the  gong  sounds,  an'  I  can  see  the  Terror 
startin'  for  me.  'Quit,'  says  Bill,  makin'  a  move  to  throw 
in  the  towel.  'Not  on  your  life,'  I  says.  'Drop  it,  Bill.' 
But  he  went  on  wantin'  me  to  quit.  By  that  time  the 
Terror  had  come  across  to  my  corner  an*  was  standin'  with 
his  hands  down,  lookin'  at  me.  The  referee  was  lookin', 
too,  an'  the  house  was  that  quiet,  lookin',  you  could  hear 
a  pin  drop.  An'  my  head  was  gettin'  some  clearer,  but 
not  much. 

"  'You  can't  win,7  Bill  says. 

"  'Watch  me,'  says  I.  An'  with  that  I  make  a  rush 
for  the  Terror,  catchin'  him  unexpected.  I'm  that  groggy 


232  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

I  can't  stand,  but  I  just  keep  a-goin',  wallopin'  the  Terror 
clear  across  the  ring  to  his  corner,  where  he  slips  an'  falls, 
an'  I  fall  on  top  of  'm.  Say,  that  crowd  goes  crazy. 

''Where  was  I?  My  head's  still  goin'  round  I  guess 

It's  buzzin'  like  a  swarm  of  bees." 

"You'd  just  fallen  on  top  of  him  in  his  corner,"  Saxon 
prompted. 

"Oh,  yes.  Well,  no  sooner  are  we  on  our  feet — an'  I 
can't  stand — I  rush  'm  the  same  way  back  across  to  my 
corner  an'  fall  on  'm.  That  was  luck.  We  got  up,  an' 
I'd  a- fallen,  only  I  clenched  an'  held  myself  up  by  him. 

"  *I  got  your  goat/  I  says  to  him.  'An'  now  I'm  goin' 
to  eat  you  up.' 

"I  hadn't  his  goat,  but  I  was  play  in'  to  get  a  piece 
of  it,  an'  I  got  it,  rushin'  'm  as  soon  as  the  referee  drags 
us  apart  an'  fetchin'  'm  a  lucky  wallop  in  the  stomach 
that  steadied  'in  an'  made  him  almighty  careful.  Too 
almighty  careful.  He  was  afraid  to  chance  a  mix  with 
me.  He  thought  I  had  more  fight  left  in  me  than  I  had. 
So  you  see  I  got  that  much  of  his  goat  anyway. 

"An'  he  couldn't  get  me.  He  didn't  get  me.  An'  in 
the  twentieth  we  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  ring  an'  ex- 
changed wallops  even.  Of  course,  I'd  made  a  fine  showin' 
for  a  licked  man,  but  he  got  the  decision,  which  was  right. 
But  I  fooled  'm.  He  couldn't  get  me.  An'  I  fooled  the 
gazabos  that  was  bettin'  he  would  on  short  order." 

At  last,  as  dawn  came  on,  Billy  slept.  He  groaned 
and  moaned,  his  face  twisting  with  pain,  his  body  vainly 
moving  and  tossing  in  quest  of  easement. 

So  this  was  prizefighting,  Saxon  thought.  It  was  much 
worse  than  she  had  dreamed.  She  had  had  no  idea  that 
such  damage  could  be  wrought  with  padded  gloves.  He 
must  never  fight  again.  Street  rioting  was  preferable. 
She  was  wondering  how  much  of  his  silk  had  been  lost, 
when  he  mumbled  and  opened  his  eyes. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  ere  it  came  to  her  that  his 
eyes  were  unseeing  and  that  he  was  in  delirium. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      233 

"Saxon!     ..."  Saxon!"  he  called. 

"Yes,  Billy.    What  is  it?" 

His  hand  fumbled  over  the  bed  where  ordinarily  it  would 
have  encountered  her. 

Again  he  called  her,  and  she  cried  her  presence  loudly 
in  his  ear.  He  sighed  with  relief  and  muttered  brokenly: 

"I  had  to  do  it.     ...     We  needed  the  money." 

His  eyes  closed,  and  he  slept  more  soundly,  though  his 
muttering  continued.  She  had  heard  of  congestion  of 
the  brain,  and  was  frightened.  Then  she  remembered  his 
telling  her  of  the  ice  Billy  Murphy  had  held  against  his 
head. 

Throwing  a  shawl  over  her  head,  she  ran  to  the  Pile 
Drivers'  Home  on  Seventh  street.  The  barkeeper  had  just 
opened,  and  was  sweeping  out.  From  the  refrigerator  he 
gave  her  all  the  ice  she  wished  to  carry,  breaking  it  into 
convenient  pieces  for  her.  Back  in  the  house,  she  applied 
the  ice  to  the  base  of  Billy's  brain,  placed  hot  irons  to 
his  feet,  and  bathed  his  head  with  witch  hazel  made  cold 
bv  resting  on  the  ice. 

He  slept  in  the  darkened  room  until  late  afternoon, 
when,  to  Saxon's  dismay,  he  insisted  on  getting  up. 

"Gotta  make  a  showin',"  he  explained.  "They  ain't 
goin'  to  have  the  laugh  on  me." 

In  torment  he  was  helped  by  her  to  dress,  and  in  tor- 
ment he  went  forth  from  the  house  so  that  his  world 
should  have  ocular  evidence  that  the  beating  he  had  re- 
ceived did  not  keep  him  in  bed. 

It  was  another  kind  of  pride,  different  from  a  woman's, 
and  Saxon  wondered  if  it  were  the  less  admirable  for  that. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

IN  the  days  that  followed  Billy's  swellings  went  down 
and  the  bruises  passed  away  with  surprising  rapidity. 
The  quick  healing  of  the  lacerations  attested  the  healthi- 
ness of  his  blood.  Only  remained  the  black  eyes,  unduly 
conspicuous  on  a  face  as  blond  as  his.  The  discoloration 
was  stubborn,  persisting  half  a  month,  in  which  time 
happened  divers  events  of  importance. 

Otto  Frank's  trial  had  been  expeditious.  Found  guilty 
by  a  jury  notable  for  the  business  and  professional  men 
on  it,  the  death  sentence  was  passed  upon  him  and  he 
was  removed  to  San  Quentin  for  execution. 

The  case  of  Chester  Johnson  and  the  fourteen  others 
had  taken  longer,  but  within  the  same  week,  it,  too,  was 
finished.  Chester  Johnson  was  sentenced  to  be  hanged. 
Two  got  life;  three,  twenty  years.  Only  two  were  ac- 
quitted. The  remaining  seven  received  terms  of  from  two 
to  ten  years. 

The  effect  on  Saxon  was  to  throw  her  into  deep  depres- 
sion. Billy  was  made  gloomy,  but  his  fighting  spirit  was 
not  subdued. 

"Always  some  men  killed  in  battle,"  he  said.  "That's 
to  be  expected.  But  the  way  of  sentencin'  'em  gets  me. 
I  All  found  guilty  was  responsible  for  the  killin';  or  none 
was  responsible.  If  all  was,  then  they  should  get  the 
same  sentence.  They  oughta  hang  like  Chester  Johnson, 
or  else  he  oughtn't  to  hang.  I'd  just  like  to  know  how  the 
judge  makes  up  his  mind.  It  must  be  like  markin'  China 
lottery  tickets.  He  plays  hunches.  He  looks  at  a  guy 
an'  waits  for  a  spot  or  a  number  to  come  into  his  head. 
How  else  could  he  give  Johnny  Black  four  years  an'  Cal 
Hutchins  twenty  years?  He  played  the  hunches  as  they 
.234 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      235 

came  into  his  head,  an'  it  might  just  as  easy  ben  the  other 
way  around  an'  Cal  Hutchins  got  four  years  an'  Johnny 
Black  twenty. 

' '  I  know  both  them  boys.  They  hung  out  with  the  Tenth 
an'  Kirkham  gang  mostly,  though  sometimes  they  ran  with 
my  gang.  We  used  to  go  swimmin'  after  school  down  to 
Sandy  Beach  on  the  marsh,  an'  in  the  Transit  slip  where 
they  said  the  water  was  sixty  feet  deep,  only  it  wasn't. 
An'  once,  on  a  Thursday,  we  dug  a  lot  of  clams  together, 
an'  played  hookey  Friday  to  peddle  them.  An'  we  used 
to  go  out  on  the  Rock  Wall  an'  catch  pogies  an'  rock  cod. 
One  day — the  day  of  the  eclipse — Cal  caught  a  perch 
half  as  big  as  a  door.  I  never  seen  such  a  fish.  An'  now 
he's  got  to  wear  the  stripes  for  twenty  years.  Lucky  he 
wasn't  married.  If  he  don't  get  the  consumption  he'll 
be  an  old  man  when  he  comes  out.  Cal's  mother  wouldn't 
let  'm  go  swimmin',  an'  whenever  she  suspected  she  al- 
ways licked  his  hair  with  her  tongue.  If  it  tasted  salty,  he 
got  a  beltin'.  But  he  was  onto  himself.  Comin'  home, 
he'd  jump  somebody's  front  fence  an'  hold  his  head  under 
a  faucet." 

"I  used  to  dance  with  Chester  Johnson,"  Saxon  said. 
"And  I  knew  his  wife,  Kittie  Brady,  long  and  long  ago. 
She  had  next  place  at  the  table  to  me  in  the  paper-box 
factory.  She's  gone  to  San  Francisco  to  her  married 
sister's.  She's  going  to  have  a  baby,  too.  She  was  awfully 
pretty,  and  there  was  always  a  string  of  fellows  after 
her." 

The  effect  of  the  conviction  and  severe  sentences  was  a 
bad  one  on  the  union  men.  Instead  of  being  disheartening, 
it  intensified  the  bitterness.  Billy's  repentance  for  having 
fought  and  the  sweetness  and  affection  which  had  flashed 
up  in  the  days  of  Saxon 's  nursing  of  him  were  blotted  out. 
At  home,  he  scowled  and  brooded,  while  his  talk  took  on 
the  tone  of  Bert's  in  the  last  days  ere  that  Mohegan  died. 
Also,  Billy  stayed  away  from  home  longer  hours,  and 
was  again  steadily  drinking. 

Saxon    well-nigh    abandoned    hope.      Almost    was    she 


236  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

steeled  to  the  inevitable  tragedy  which  her  morbid  fancy 
painted  in  a  thousand  guises.  Oftenest,  it  was  of  Billy 
being  brought  home  on  a  stretcher.  Sometimes  it  was  a 
call  to  the  telephone  in  the  corner  grocery  and  the  curt 
information  by  a  strange  voice  that  her  husband  was  lying 
in  the  receiving  hospital  or  the  morgue.  And  when  the 
mysterious  horse-poisoning  cases  occurred,  and  when  the 
residence  of  one  of  the  teaming  magnates  was  half  de- 
stroyed by  dynamite,  she  saw  Billy  in  prison,  or  wearing 
stripes,  or  mounting  to  the  scaffold  at  San  Quentin ;  while 
at  the  same  time  she  could  see  the  little  cottage  on  Pine 
street  besieged  by  newspaper  reporters  and  photographers. 

Yet  her  lively  imagination  failed  altogether  to  antici- 
pate the  real  catastrophe.  Harmon,  the  fireman  lodger, 
passing  through  the  kitchen  on  his  way  out  to  work,  had 
paused  to  tell  Saxon  about  the  previous  day's  train- wreck 
in  the  Alviso  marshes,  and  of  how  the  engineer,  impris- 
oned under  the  overturned  engine  and  unhurt,  being 
drowned  by  the  rising  tide,  had  begged  to  be  shot.  Billy 
came  in  at  the  end  of  the  narrative,  and  from  the  somber 
light  in  his  heavy-lidded  eyes  Saxon  knew  he  had  been 
drinking.  He  glowered  at  Harmon,  and,  without  greeting 
to  him  or  Saxon,  leaned  his  shoulder  against  the  wall. 

Harmon  felt  the  awkwardness  of  the  situation,  and  did 
his  best  to  appear  oblivious. 

"I  was  just  telling  your  wife "  he  began,  but  was 

savagely  interrupted. 

"I  don't  care  what  you  was  tellin'  her.  But  I  got  some- 
thing to  tell  you,  Mister  Man.  My  wife's  made  up  your 
bed  too  many  times  to  suit  me." 

"Billy!"  Saxon  cried,  her  face  scarlet  with  resentment, 
and  hurt,  and  shame. 

Billy  ignored  her.     Harmon  was  saying. 

"I  don't  understand " 

"Well,  I  don't  like  your  mug,"  Billy  informed  him. 
"You're  standin'  on  your  foot.  Get  off  of  it.  Get  out. 
Beat  it.  D'ye  understand  that?" 

"I  don't  know  what's  got  into  him,"  Saxon  gasped  hur- 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     237 

riedly  to  the  fireman.  "He's  not  himself.  Oh,  I  am  so 
ashamed,  so  ashamed." 

Billy  turned  on  her. 

"You  shut  your  mouth  an'  keep  outa  this." 

"But,  Billy,"  she  remonstrated. 

"An'  get  outa  here.     You  go  into  the  other  room." 

"Here,  now,"  Harmon  broke  in.  "This  is  a  fine  way 
to  treat  a  fellow." 

"I've  given  you  too  much  rope  as  it  is,"  was  Billy's 
answer. 

"I've  paid  my  rent  regularly,  haven't  I?" 

"An'  I  oughta  knock  your  block  off  for  you.  Don't 
see  any  reason  I  shouldn't,  for  that  matter." 

"If  you  do  anything  like  that,  Billy "  Saxon  began. 

"You  here  still?  Well,  if  you  won't  go  into  the  other 
room,  I'll  see  that  you  do." 

His  hand  clutched  her  arm.  For  one  instant  she 
resisted  his  strength ;  and  in  that  instant,  the  flesh 
crushed  under  his  fingers,  she  realized  the  fullness  of  his 
strength. 

In  the  front  room  she  could  only  lie  back  in  the  Morris 
chair  sobbing,  and  listen  to  what  occurred  in  the  kitchen. 

"I'll  stay  to  the  end  of  the  week,"  the  fireman  was 
saving.  "I've  paid  in  advance." 

"Don't  make  no  mistake,"  came  Billy's  voice,  so  slow 
that  it  was  almost  a  drawl,  yet  quivering  with  rage.  "You 
can't  get  out  too  quick  if  you  wanta  stay  healthy — j^ou 
an'  your  traps  with  you.  I'm  likely  to  start  something 
any  moment." 

"Oh,  I  know  you're  a  slugger "  the  fireman's  voice 

began. 

Then  came  the  unmistakable  impact  of  a  blow ;  the  crash 
of  glass;  a  scuffle  on  the  back  porch;  and,  finally,  the 
heavy  bumps  of  a  body  down  the  steps.  She  heard  Billy 
reenter  the  kitchen,  move  about,  and  knew  he  was  sweep- 
ing up  the  broken  glass  of  the  kitchen  door.  Then  he 
washed  himself  at  the  sink,  whistling  while  he  dried  his 
face  and  hands,  and  walked  into  the  front  room.  She  did 


238  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

not  look  at  him.  She  was  too  sick  and  sad.  He  paused 
irresolutely,  seeming  to  make  up  his  mind. 

"I'm  goin'  up  town,"  he  stated.  "They's  a  meeting 
of  the  union.  If  I  don't  come  back  it'll  be  because  that 
geezer's  sworn  out  a  warrant." 

He  opened  the  front  door  and  paused.  She  knew  he 
was  looking  at  her.  Then  the  door  closed  and  she  heard; 
kim  go  down  the  steps. 

Saxon  was  stunned.  She  did  not  think.  She  did  not 
know  what  to  think.  The  whole  thing  was  incomprehensi- 
ble, incredible.  She  lay  back  in  the  chair,  her  eyes  closed, 
her  mind  almost  a  blank,  crushed  by  a  leaden  feeling  that 
the  end  had  come  to  everything. 

The  voices  of  children  playing  in  the  street  aroused 
her.  Night  had  fallen.  She  groped  her  way  to  a  lamp 
and  lighted  it.  In  the  kitchen  she  stared,  lips  trembling, 
at  the  pitiful,  half  prepared  meal.  The  fire  had  gone  out. 
The  water  had  boiled  away  from  the  potatoes.  When  she 
lifted  the  lid,  a  burnt  smell  arose.  Methodically  she 
scraped  and  cleaned  the  pot,  put  things  in  order,  and 
peeled  and  sliced  the  potatoes  for  next  day's  frying.  And 
just  as  methodically  she  went  to  bed.  Her  lack  of  nerv- 
ousness, her  placidity,  was  abnormal,  so  abnormal  that  she 
closed  her  eyes  and  was  almost  immediately  asleep.  Nor 
did  she  awaken  till  the  sunshine  was  streaming  into  the 
room. 

It  was  the  first  night  she  and  Billy  had  slept  apart. 
She  was  amazed  that  she  had  not  lain  awake  worrying 
about  him.  She  lay  with  eyes  wide  open,  scarcely  think- 
ing, until  pain  in  her  arm  attracted  her  attention.  It  was 
where  Billy  had  gripped  her.  On  examination  she  found 
the  bruised  flesh  fearfully  black  and  blue.  She  was  as- 
tonished, not  by  the  spiritual  fact  that  such  bruise  had 
been  administered  by  the  one  she  loved  most  in  the  world, 
but  by  the  sheer  physical  fact  that  an  instant's  pressure 
had  inflicted  so  much  damage.  The  strength  of  a  man 
was  a  terrible  thing.  Quite  impersonally,  she  found  her- 
self wondering  if  Charley  Long  were  as  strong  as  Billy. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     239 

It  was  not  until  she  dressed  and  built  the  fire  that  she 
began  to  think  about  more  immediate  things.  Billy  had 
not  returned.  Then  he  was  arrested.  What  was  she  to 
do? — leave  him  in  jail,  go  away,  and  start  life  afresh? 
Of  course  it  was  impossible  to  go  on  living  with  a  man 
who  had  behaved  as  he  had.  But  then,  came  another 
thought,  was  it  impossible  ?  After  all,  he  was  her  husbando 
For  better  or  worse — the  phrase  reiterated  itself,  a  mo- 
notonous accompaniment  to  her  thoughts,  at  the  back  of  her 
consciousness.  To  leave  him  was  to  surrender.  She  car- 
ried the  matter  before  the  tribunal  of  her  mother's  mem- 
ory. No;  Daisy  would  never  have  surrendered.  Daisy 
was  a  fighter.  Then  she,  Saxon,  must  fight.  Besides — and 
she  acknowledged  it  readily,  though  in  a  cold,  dead 
way — besides,  Billy  was  better  than  most  husbands.  Bet- 
ter than  any  other  husband  she  had  heard  of,  she  con- 
cluded, as  she  remembered  many  of  his  earlier  nicenesses 
and  finenesses,  and  especially  his  eternal  chant:  Nothing 
is  too  good  for  us.  The  Eobertses  ain't  on  the  cheap. 

At  eleven  o'clock  she  had  a  caller.  It  was  Bud  Stroth- 
ers,  Billy's  mate  on  strike  duty.  Billy,  he  told  her,  had 
refused  bail,  refused  a  lawyer,  had  asked  to  be  tried  by 
the  Court,  had  pleaded  guilty,  and  had  received  a  sentence 
of  sixty  dollars  or  thirty  days.  Also,  he  had  refused  to 
let  the  boys  pay  his  fine. 

"He's  clean  looney,"  Strothers  summed  up.  "Won't 
listen  to  reason.  Says  he'll  serve  the  time  out.  He's  ben 
tankin'  up  too  regular,  I  guess.  His  wheels  are  buzzin'. 
Here,  he  give  me  this  note  for  you.  Any  time  you  want 
anything  send  for  me.  The  boys '11  all  stand  by  Bill's 
wife.  You  belong  to  us,  you  know.  How  are  you  off  for 
money  ? ' ' 

Proudly  she  disclaimed  any  need  for  money,  and  not 
until  her  visitor  departed  did  she  read  Billy's  note: 

Dear  Saxon — Bud  Strothers  is  going  to  give  you  this.  Don't 
worry  about  me.  I  am  going  to  take  my  medicine.  I  deserve  it — 
you  Tcnow  that.  I  guess  I  am  gone  bughouse.  Just  the  same,  I  an 
sorry  for  what  I  done.  Don't  come  to  see  me.  I  don't  want  you  to. 


240  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

//  you  need  money,  the  union  will  give  you  some.  The  Zmstn«sa 
agent  is  all  right.  1  will  be  out  in  a  month.  Now,  Saxon,  you  know 
I  love  you,  and  just  say  to  yourself  that  you  forgive  me  this  time, 
and  yon  won't  never  have  to  do  it  again. 

Billy. 

Bud  Strothers  was  followed  by  Maggie  Donahue,  and 
Mrs.  Olsen,  who  paid  neighborly  calls  of  cheer  and  were 
tactful  in  their  offers  of  help  and  in  studiously  avoiding 
more  reference  than  was  necessary  to  Billy's  predicament. 

In  the  afternoon  James  Harmon  arrived.  He  limped 
slightly,  and  Saxon  divined  that  he  was  doing  his  best  to 
minimize  that  evidence  of  hurt.  She  tried  to  apologize  to 
him,  but  he  would  not  listen. 

"I  don't  blame  you,  Mrs.  Roberts,"  he  said.  "I  know 
it  wasn't  your  doing.  But  your  husband  wasn't  just  him- 
self, I  guess.  He  was  fightin'  mad  on  general  principles, 
and  it  was  just  my  luck  to  get  in  the  way-  that  was  all." 

"But  just  the  same -" 

The  fireman  shook  his  head. 

"I  know  all  about  it.  I  used  to  punish  the  drink  my- 
self, and  I  done  some  funny  things  in  them  days.  And 
I'm  sorry  I  swore  that  warrant  out  and  testified.  But  I 
was  hot  in  the  collar.  I'm  cooled  down  now,  an'  I'm 
sorry  I  done  it." 

"You're  awfully  good  and  kind,"  she  said,  and  then 
began  hesitantly  on  what  was  bothering  her.  "You 
.  .  .  you  can't  stay  now,  with  him  .  .  ,  away,  you 
know." 

"Yes;  that  wouldn't  do,  would  it?  I'll  tell  you:  I'll 
pack  up  right  now,  and  skin  out,  and  then,  before  six 
o'clock,  I'll  send  a  wagon  for  my  things.  Here's  the  key 
to  the  kitchen  door." 

Much  as  he  demurred,  she  compelled  him  to  receive  back 
the  unexpired  portion  of  his  rent.  He  shook  her  hand 
heartily  at  leaving,  and  tried  to  get  her  to  promise  to  call 
upon  him  for  a  loan  any  time  she  might  be  in  need. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  assured  her.  "I'm  married,  and  got 
two  boys.  One  of  them's  got  his  lungs  touched,  and  she's 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      241 

with  'em  down  in  Arizona  campin'  out.  The  railroad 
helped  with  passes." 

And  as  he  went  down  the  steps  she  wondered  that  so 
kind  a  man  should  be  in  so  madly  cruel  a  world. 

The  Donahue  boy  threw  in  a  spare  evening  paper,  and 
Saxon  found  half  a  column  devoted  to  Billy.  It  was  not 
nice.  The  fact  that  he  had  stood  up  in  the  police  court 
with  his  eyes  blacked  from  some  other  fray  was  noted. 
He  was  described  as  a  bully,  a  hoodlum,  a  rough-neck, 
a  professional  slugger  whose  presence  in  the  ranks  was  a 
disgrace  to  organized  labor.  The  assault  he  had  pleaded 
guilty  of  was  atrocious  and  unprovoked,  and  if  he  were  a 
fair  sample  of  a  striking  teamster,  the  only  wise  thing 
for  Oakland  to  do  was  to  break  up  the  union  and  drive 
every  member  from  the  city.  And,  finally,  the  paper  com- 
plained at  the  mildness  of  the  sentence.  It  should  have 
been  six  months  at  least.  The  judge  was  quoted  as  ex- 
pressing regret  that  he  had  been  unable  to  impose  a  six 
months'  sentence,  this  inability  being  due  to  the  condi- 
tion of  the  jails,  already  crowded  beyond  capacity  by 
the  many  cases  of  assault  committed  in  the  course  of  the 
various  strikes. 

That  night,  in  bed,  Saxon  experienced  her  first  loneli- 
ness. Her  brain  seemed  in  a  whirl,  and  her  sleep  was 
broken  by  vain  gropings  for  the  form  of  Billy  she  imag- 
ined at  her  side.  At  last,  she  lighted  the  lamp  and  lay 
staring  at  the  ceiling,  wide-eyed,  conning  over  and  over 
the  details  of  the  disaster  that  had  overwhelmed  her.  She 
could  forgive,  and  she  could  not  forgive.  The  blow  to 
fher  love-life  had  been  too  savage,  too  brutal.  Her  pride 
was  too  lacerated  to  permit  her  wholly  to  return  in  mem- 
ory to  the  other  Billy  whom  she  loved.  Wine  in,  wit  out, 
she  repeated  to  herself;  but  the  phrase  could  not  absolve 
the  man  who  had  slept  by  her  side,  and  to  whom  she  had 
consecrated  herself.  She  wept  in  the  loneliness  of  the  all- 
too-spacious  bed,  strove  to  forget  Billy's  incomprehensi- 
ble cruelty,  even  pillowed  her  cheek  with  numb  fondness 
against  the  bruise  of  her  arm ;  but  still  resentment  burned 


242  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

within  her,  a  steady  flame  of  protest  against  Billy  and  all 
that  Billy  had  done.  Her  throat  was  parched,  a  dull 
ache  never  ceased  in  her  breast,  and  she  was  oppressed 

by  a  feeling  of  goneness.   Whyf    Why?  And  from  the 

puzzle  of  the  world  came  no  solution. 

In  the  morning  she  received  a  visit  from  Sarah — the 
second  in  all  the  period  of  her  marriage;  and  she  could 
easily  guess  her  sister-in-law's  ghoulish  errand.  No  exer- 
tion was  required  for  the  assertion  of  all  of  Saxon's  pride. 
She  refused  to  be  in  the  slightest  on  the  defensive.  There 
was  nothing  to  defend,  nothing  to  explain.  Everything 
was  all  right,  and  it  was  nobody's  business  anyway.  This 
attitude  but  served  to  vex  Sarah. 

"I  warned  you,  and  you  can't  say  I  didn't,"  her  dia- 
tribe ran.  "I  always  knew  he  was  no  good,  a  jailbird, 
a  hoodlum,  a  slugger.  My  heart  sunk  into  my  boots  when 
I  heard  you  was  runnin'  with  a  prizefighter.  I  told  you 
so  at  the  time.  But  no;  you  wouldn't  listen,  you  with 
your  highfalutin'  notions  an'  more  pairs  of  shoes  than 
any  decent  woman  should  have.  You  knew  better 'n  me. 
An'  I  said  then,  to  Tom,  I  said,  'It's  all  up  with  Saxon 
now.'  Them  was  my  very  words.  Them  that  touches 
pitch  is  denied.  If  you'd  only  a-married  Charley  Long! 
Then  the  family  wouldn't  a-ben  disgraced.  An'  this  is 
only  the  beginnin',  mark  me,  only  the  beginnin'.  Where 
it'll  end,  God  knows.  He'll  kill  somebody  yet,  that  plug- 
ugly  of  yourn,  an'  be  hanged  for  it.  You  wait  an'  see, 
that's  all,  an'  then  you'll  remember  my  words.  As  you 
make  your  bed,  so  you  will  lay  in  it " 

'Best  bed  I  ever  had,"  Saxon  commented. 

'So  you  can  say,  so  you  can  say,"  Sarah  snorted. 

'I  wouldn't  trade  it  for  a  queen's  bed,"  Saxon  added. 

'A  jailbird's  bed,"  Sarah  rejoined  witheringly. 

'Oh,  it's  the  style,"  Saxon  retorted  airily.     "Every- 
body's  getting  a  taste  of  jail.     Wasn't  Tom  arrested  at 
some  street  meeting  of  the  socialists?    Everybody  goes  to 
jail  these  days." 
The  barb  had  struck  home. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     243 

"But  Tom  was  acquitted,"  Sarah  hastened  to  proclaim. 

"Just  the  same  he  lay  in  jail  all  night  without  bail." 

This  was  unanswerable,  and  Sarah  executed  her  favor- 
ite tactic  of  attack  in  flank. 

"A  nice  come-down  for  you,  I  must  say,  that  was  raised 
straight  an'  right,  a-cuttin'  up  didoes  with  a  lodger." 

"\\lio  says  so?"  Saxon  blazed  with  an  indignation 
quickly  mastered. 

' '  Oh,  a  blind  man  can  read  between  the  lines.  A  lodger, 
a  young  married  woman  with  no  self  respect,  an'  a  prize- 
fighter for  a  husband — what  else  would  they  fight  about  ? ' ' 

"Just  like  any  family  quarrel,  wasn't  it?"  Saxon 
smiled  placidly. 

Sarah  was  shocked  into  momentary  speechlessness. 

"And  I  want  you  to  understand  it,"  Saxon  continued. 
"It  makes  a  woman  proud  to  have  men  fight  over  her. 
I  am  proud.  Do  you  hear?  I  am  proud.  I  want  you  to 
tell  them  so.  I  want  you  to  tell  all  your  neighbors.  Tell 
everybody.  I  am  no  cow.  Men  like  me.  Men  fight  for 
me.  Men  go  to  jail  for  me.  What  is  a  woman  in  the 
world  for,  if  it  isn't  to  have  men  like  her?  Now,  go, 
Sarah;  go  at  once,  and  tell  everybody  what  you've  read 
between  the  lines.  Tell  them  Billy  is  a  jailbird  and  that  I 
am  a  bad  woman  whom  all  men  desire.  Shout  it  out,  and 
good  luck  to  you.  And  get  out  of  my  house.  And  never 
put  your  feet  in  it  again.  You  are  too  decent  a  woman 
to  come  here.  You  might  lose  your  reputation.  And 
think  of  your  children.  Now  get  out.  Go." 

Not  until  Sarah  had  taken  an  amazed  and  horrified  de- 
parture did  Saxon  fling  herself  on  the  bed  in  a  convul- 
sion of  tears.  She  had  been  ashamed,  before,  merely  of 
Billy's  inhospitality,  and  surliness,  and  unfairness.  But 
she  could  see,  now,  the  light  in  which  others  looked  on 
the  affair.  It  had  not  entered  Saxon's  head.  She  was 
confident  that  it  had  not  entered  Billy's.  She  knew  his 
attitude  from  the  first.  Always  he  had  opposed  taking 
a  lodger  because  of  his  proud  faith  that  his  wife  should 
not  work.  Only  hard  times  had  compelled  his  consent, 


244  THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

and,  now  that  she  looked  back,  almost  had  she  inveigled 
him  into  consenting. 

But  all  this  did  not  alter  the  viewpoint  the  neighbor- 
hood must  hold,  that  every  one  who  had  ever  known  her 
must  hold.  And  for  this,  too,  Billy  was  responsible.  It 
was  more  terrible  than  all  the  other  things  he  had  been 
guilty  of  put  together.  She  could  never  look  any  one  ir 
the  face  again.  Maggie  Donahue  and  Mrs.  Olsen  had  been 
very  kind,  but  of  what  must  they  have  been  thinking  all 
the  time  they  talked  with  her  ?  And  what  must  they  have 
said  to  each  other?  What  was  everybody  saying? — over 
front  gates  and  back  fences? — the  men  standing  on  the 
corners  or  talking  in  saloons? 

Later,  exhausted  by  her  grief,  when  the  tears  no  longer 
fell,  she  grew  more  impersonal,  and  dwelt  on  the  disas- 
ters that  had  befallen  so  many  women  since  the  strike 
troubles  began — Otto  Frank's  wife,  Henderson's  widow, 
pretty  Kittie  Brady,  Mary,  all  the  womenfolk  of  the  other 
workmen  who  were  now  wearing  the  stripes  in  San  Quen- 
tin.  Her  world  was  crashing  about  her  ears.  No  one  was 
exempt.  Not  only  had  she  not  escaped,  but  hers  was  the 
worst  disgrace  of  all.  Desperately  she  tried  to  hug  the 
delusion  that  she  was  asleep,  that  it  was  all  a  nightmare, 
and  that  soon  the  alarm  would  go  off  and  she  would  get 
up  and  cook  Billy 's  breakfast  so  that  he  could  go  to  work. 

She  did  not  leave  the  bed  that  day.  Nor  did  she  sleep. 
Her  brain  whirled  on  and  on,  now  dwelling  at  insistent 
length  upon  her  misfortunes,  now  pursuing  the  most  fan- 
tastic ramifications  of  what  she  considered  her  disgrace, 
and.  again,  going  back  to  her  childhood  and  wandering 
through  endless  trivial  detail.  She  worked  at  all  the  tasks 
she  had  ever  done,  performing,  in  fancy,  the  myriads  of 
mechanical  movements  peculiar  to  each  occupation — shap- 
ing and  pasting  in  the  paper  box  factory,  ironing  in  the 
laundry,  weaving  in  the  jute  mill,  peeling  fruit  in  the 
cannery  and  countless  boxes  of  scalded  tomatoes.  She 
attended  all  her  dances  and  all  her  picnics  over  again; 
went  through  her  school  days,  recalling  the  face  and  name 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     245 

and  seat  of  every  schoolmate;  endured  the  gray  "bleak- 
ness of  the  years  in  the  orphan  asylum;  revisioned  every 
memory  of  her  mother,  every  tale;  and  relived  all  her  life 
with  Billy.  But  ever — and  here  the  torment  lay — she  was 
drawn  back  from  these  far-wanderings  to  her  present  trou- 
ble, with  its  parch  in  the  throat,  its  ache  in  the  breast, 
and  its  gnawing,  vacant  goneness. 


CHAPTER   XV 

ALL  that  night  Saxon  lay,  unsleeping,  without  taking 
off  her  clothes,  and  when  she  arose  in  the  morning  and 
washed  her  face  and  dressed  her  hair  she  was  aware  of 
a  strange  numbness,  of  a  feeling  of  constriction  about  her 
head  as  if  it  were  bound  by  a  heavy  band  of  iron.  It 
seemed  like  a  dull  pressure  upon  her  brain.  It  was  the 
beginning  of  an  illness  that  she  did  not  know  as  illness. 
All  she  knew  was  that  she  felt  queer.  It  was  not  fever. 
It  was  not  cold.  Her  bodily  health  was  as  it  should  be, 
and,  when  she  thought  about  it,  she  put  her  condition  down 
to  nerves — nerves,  according  to  her  ideas  and  the  ideas  of 
her  class,  being  unconnected  with  disease. 

She  had  a  strange  feeling  of  loss  of  self,  of  being  a 
stranger  to  herself,  and  the  world  in  which  she  moved 
seemed  a  vague  and  shrouded  world.  It  lacked  sharpness 
of  definition.  Its  customary  vividness  was  gone.  She  had 
lapses  of  memory,  and  was  continually  finding  herself  do- 
ing unplanned  things.  Thus,  to  her  astonishment,  she 
came  to  in  the  back  yard  hanging  up  the  week's  wash. 
She  had  no  recollection  of  having  done  it,  yet  it  had  been 
done  precisely  as  it  should  have  been  done.  She  had  boiled 
the  sheets  and  pillowslips  and  the  table  linen.  Billy's 
woolens  had  been  washed  in  warm  water  only,  with  the 
home-made  soap,  the  recipe  of  which  Mercedes  had  given 
her.  On  investigation,  she  found  she  had  eaten  a  mutton 
chop  for  breakfast.  This  meant  that  she  had  been  to  the 
butcher  shop,  yet  she  had  no  memory  of  having  gone. 
Curiously,  she  went  into  the  bedroom.  The  bed  was  made 
up  and  everything  in  order. 

At  twilight  she  came  upon  herself  in  the  front  room, 
seated  by  the  window,  crying  in  an  ecstasy  of  joy.  At 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     247 

first  she  did  not  know  what  this  joy  was;  then  it  came 
to  her  that  it  was  because  she  had  lost  her  baby.  "A 
blessing,  a  blessing,"  she  was  chanting  aloud,  wringing 
her  hands,  but  with  joy,  she  knew  it  was  with  joy  that 
she  wrung  her  hands. 

The  days  came  and  went.  She  had  little  notion  of  time. 
Sometimes,  centuries  agone,  it  seemed  to  her  it  was  since 
Billy  had  gone  to  jail.  At  other  times  it  was  no  more  than 
the  night  before.  But  through  it  all  two  ideas  persisted: 
she  must  not  go  to  see  Billy  in  jail;  it  was  a  blessing  she 
had  lost  her  baby. 

Once,  Bud  Strothers  came  to  see  her.  She  sat  in  the 
front  room  and  talked  with  him,  noting  with  fascination 
that  there  were  fringes  to  the  heels  of  his  trousers.  An- 
other day,  thp  business  agent  of  the  union  called.  She  told 
him,  as  she  had  told  Bud  Strothers,  that  everything  was 
all  right,  that  she  needed  nothing,  that  she  could  get 
along  comfortably  until  Billy  came  out. 

A  fear  began  to  haunt  her.  When  he  came  out.  No; 
it  must  not  be.  There  must  not  be  another  baby.  It  might 
live.  No,  no,  a  thousand  times  no.  It  must  not  be.  She 
would  run  away  first.  She  would  never  see  Billy  again. 
Anything  but  that.  Anything  but  that. 

This  fear  persisted.  In  her  nightmare-ridden  sleep  it 
became  an  accomplished  fact,  so  that  she  would  awake, 
trembling,  in  a  cold  sweat,  crying  out.  Her  sleep  had 
become  wretched.  Sometimes  she  was  convinced  that  she 
did  not  sleep  at  all,  and  she  knew  that  she  had  insomnia, 
*;and  remembered  that  it  was  of  insomnia  her  mother  had 
died. 

She  came  to  herself  one  day,  sitting  in  Doctor  Hentley's 
office.  He  was  looking  at  her  in  a  puzzled  way. 

"Got  plenty  to  eat?"  he  was  asking. 

She  nodded. 

"Any  serious  troubled" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Everything's    all    right,    Doctor      .      .      .      except 


248  THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  encouraged. 

And  then  she  knew  why  she  had  come.  Simply,  ex- 
plicitly, she  told  him.  He  shook  his  head  slowly. 

"It  can't  be  done,  little  woman,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  but  it  can ! ' '  she  cried.    ' '  I  know  it  can. ' ' 

"I  don't  mean  that,"  he  answered.  "I  mean  I  can't 
£ell  you.  I  dare  not.  It  is  against  the  law.  There  is 
a  doctor  in  Leaven  worth  prison  right  now  for  that." 

In  vain  she  pleaded  with  him.  He  instanced  his  own 
wife  and  children  whose  existence  forbade  his  imperiling 
himself. 

"Besides,  there  is  no  likelihood  now,"  he  told  her. 

' '  But  there  will  be,  there  is  sure  to  be, ' '  she  urged. 

But  he  could  only  shake  his  head  sadly. 

"Why  do  you  want  to  know?"  he  questioned  finally. 

Saxon  poured  her  heart  out  to  him.  She  told  of  her  first 
year  of  happiness  with  Billy,  of  the  hard  times  caused 
by  the  labor  troubles,  of  the  change  in  Billy  so  that  there 
was  no  love-life  left,  of  her  own  deep  horror.  Not  if  it 
died,  she  concluded.  She  could  go  through  that  again. 
But  if  it  should  live.  Billy  wrould  soon  be  out  of  jail, 
and  then  the  danger  would  begin.  It  was  only  a  few 
words.  She  would  never  tell  any  one.  Wild  horses  could 
not  drag  it  out  of  her. 

But  Doctor  Hentley  continued  to  shake  his  head. 

"I  can't  tell  you,  little  woman.  It's  a  shame,  but 
I  can't  take  the  risk.  My  hands  are  tied.  Our  laws 
are  all  wrong.  I  have  to  consider  those  who  are  dear 
to  me." 

It  was  when  she  got  up  to  go  that  he  faltered. 

"Come  here,"  he  said.     "Sit  closer." 

He  prepared  to  whisper  in  her  ear,  then,  with  a  sudden 
excess  of  caution,  crossed  the  room  swiftly,  opened  the 
door,  and  looked  out.  When  he  sat  down  again  he  drew 
his  chair  so  close  to  hers  that  the  arms  touched,  and  when 
he  whispered  his  beard  tickled  her  ear. 

"No,  no,"  he  shut  her  off  when  she  tried  to  voice  her 
gratitude.  "I  have  told  you  nothing.  You  were  here 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     249 

to  consult  me  about  your  general  health.  Ton  are  run 
down,  out  of  condition ~" 

As  he  talked  he  moved  her  toward  the  door.  When  he 
opened  it,  a  patient  for  the  dentist  in  the  adjoining  office 
was  standing  in  the  hall.  Doctor  Hentley  lifted  his  voice. 

"What  you  need  is  that  tonic  I  prescribed.  Remember 
that.  And  don't  pamper  your  appetite  when  it  comes 
back.  Eat  strong,  nourishing  food,  and  beefsteak,  plenty 
of  beefsteak.  And  don't  cook  it  to  a  cinder.  Good  day." 

At  times  the  silent  cottage  became  unendurable,  and 
Saxon  would  throw  a  shawl  about  her  head  and  walk  out 
the  Oakland  Mole,  or  cross  the  railroad  yards  and  the 
marshes  to  Sandy  Beach  where  Billy  had  said  he  used 
to  swim.  Also,  by  going  out  the  Transit  slip,  by  climbing 
down  the  piles  on  a  precarious  ladder  of  iron  spikes,  and 
by  crossing  a  boom  of  logs,  she  won  access  to  the  Rock 
Wall  that  extended  far  out  into  the  bay  and  that  served 
as  a  barrier  between  the  mudflats  and  the  tide-scoured 
channel  of  Oakland  Estuary.  Here  the  fresh  sea  breezes 
blew  and  Oakland  sank  down  to  a  smudge  of  smoke  be- 
hind her,  while  across  the  bay  she  could  see  the  smudge 
that  represented  San  Francisco.  Ocean  steamships  passed 
up  and  down  the  estuary,  and  lofty-masted  ships,  towed 
by  red-stacked  tugs. 

She  gazed  at  the  sailors  on  the  ships,  wondered  on  what 
far  voyages  and  to  what  far  lands  they  went,  wondered 
what  freedoms  were  theirs.  Or  were  they  girt  ia  by  as 
remorseless  and  cruel  a  world  as  the  dwellers  in  Oakland 
were  ?  Were  they  as  unfair,  as  unjust,  as  brutal,  in  their 
I  dealings  with  their  fellows  as  were  the  city  dwellers  ?  It 
did  not  seem  so,  and  sometimes  she  wished  herself  on  board, 
out-bound,  going  anywhere,  she  cared  not  where,  so  long 
as  it  was  away  from  the  world  to  which  she  had  given 
her  best  and  which  had  trampled  her  in  return. 

She  did  not  know  always  when  she  left  the  house,  nor 
where  her  feet  took  her.  Once,  she  came  to  herself  in  a 
strange  part  of  Oakland.  The  street  wap  wide  and 


250  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

with  rows  of  shade  trees.  Velvet  lawns,  broken  only  by 
cement  sidewalks,  ran  down  to  the  gutters.  The  houses 
stood  apart  and  were  large.  In  her  vocabulary  they  were 
mansions.  What  had  shocked  her  to  consciousness  of  her- 
self was  a  young  man  in  the  driver's  seat  of  a  touring 
car  standing  at  the  curb.  He  was  looking  at  her  curiously, 
and  she  recognized  him  as  Roy  Blanchard,  whom,  in  front 
of  the  Forum,  Billy  had  threatened  to  whip.  Beside  the 
car,  bareheaded,  stood  another  young  man.  He,  too,  she 
remembered.  He  it  was,  at  the  Sunday  picnic  where  she 
first  met  Billy,  who  had  thrust  his  cane  between  the  legs 
of  the  flying  foot-racer  and  precipitated  the  free-for-all 
fight.  Like  Blanchard,  he  was  looking  at  her  curiously, 
and  she  became  aware  that  she  had  been  talking  to  herself. 
The  babble  of  her  lips  still  beat  in  her  ears.  She  blushed,  a 
rising  tide  of  shame  heating  her  face,  and  quickened  her 
pace.  Blanchard  sprang  out  of  the  car  and  came  to  her 
with  lifted  hat. 

"Is  anything  the  matter?"  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head,  and,  though  she  had  stopped,  she 
evinced  her  desire  to  go  on. 

"I  know  you,"  he  said,  studying  her  face.  "You  were 
with  the  striker  who  promised  me  a  licking." 

"He  is  my  husband,"  she  said. 

' '  Oh !  Good  for  him. ' '  He  regarded  her  pleasantly  and 
frankly.  "But  about  yourself?  Isn't  there  anything  I 
can  do  for  you?  Something  is  the  matter." 

"No,  I'm  all  right,"  she  answered.    "I  have  been  sick,"  ' 
she  lied;   for  she  never  dreamed  of  connecting  her  queer- 
Bess  with  sickness. 

' '  You  look  tired, ' '  he  pressed  her.  ' '  I  can  take  you  in  , 
the  machine  and  run  you  anywhere  you  want.  It  won't 
be  any  trouble.  I  've  plenty  of  time. ' ' 

Saxon  shook  her  head. 

"If  .  .  .  if  you  would  tell  me  where  I  can  catch 
the  Eighth  street  cars.  I  don't  often  come  to  this  part 
of  town." 

He  told  her  where  to  find  an  electric  car  and  what 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     251 

transfers  to  make,  and  she  was  surprised  at  the  distance 
she  had  wandered. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said.     "And  good  bye." 

"Sure  I  can't  do  anything  now?" 

"Sure." 

"Well,  good  bye,"  he  smiled  good  humoredly.  "And 
tell  that  husband  of  yours  to  keep  in  good  condition.  I'm 
likely  to  make  him  need  it  all  when  he  tangles  up  with 
me." 

"Oh,  but  you  can't  fight  with  him,"  she  warned.  "You 
mustn't.  You  haven't  got  a  show." 

"Good  for  you,"  he  admired.  "That's  the  way  for  a 
woman  to  stand  up  for  her  man.  Now  the  average  woman 
would  be  so  afraid  he  was  going  to  get  licked " 

"But  I'm  not  afraid  ...  for  him.  It's  for  you. 
He's  a  terrible  fighter.  You  wouldn't  have  any  chance. 
It  would  be  like  .  .  .  like  .  .  . " 

"Like  taking  candy  from  a  baby?"  Blanchard  finished 
for  her. 

"Yes,"  she  nodded.  "That's  just  what  he  would  call  it. 
And  whenever  he  tells  you  you  are  standing  on  your  foot 
watch  out  for  him.  Now  I  must  go.  Good  bye,  and 
thank  you  again." 

She  went  on  down  the  sidewalk,  his  cheery  good  bye 
ringing  in  her  ears.  He  was  kind — she  admitted  it  hon- 
estly; yet  he  was  one  of  the  clever  ones,  one  of  the  mas- 
ters, who,  according  to  Billy,  were  responsible  for  all 
the  cruelty  to  labor,  for  the  hardships  of  the  women,  for 
the  punishment  of  the  labor  men  who  were  wearing  stripes 
in  San  Quentin  or  were  in  the  death  cells  awaiting  the 
scaffold.  Yet  he  was  kind,  sweet  natured,  clean,  good. 
She  could  read  his  character  in  his  face.  But  how  could 
this  be,  if  he  were  responsible  for  so  much  evil  ?  She  shook 
her  head  wearily.  There  was  no  explanation,  no  under- 
standing of  this  world  which  destroyed  little  babes  and 
bruised  women's  breasts. 

As  for  her  having  strayed  into  that  neighborhood  of 
fine  residences,  she  was  unsurprised.  It  was  in  line  with 


'252  THE    VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

her  queerness.  She  did  so  many  things  without  knowing 
that  she  did  them.  But  she  must  be  careful.  It  was 
better  to  wander  on  the  marshes  and  the  Kock  Wall. 

Especially  she  liked  the  Bock  Wall.  There  was  a  free- 
dom about  it,  a  wide  spaciousness  that  she  found  herself 
instinctively  trying  to  breathe,  holding  her  arms  out  to 
embrace  and  make  part  of  herself.  It  was  a  more  natural 
world,  a  more  rational  world.  She  could  understand 
it — understand  the  green  crabs  with  white-bleached  claws 
that  scuttled  before  her  and  which  she  could  see  pastur- 
ing on  green-weeded  rocks  when  the  tide  was  low.  Here, 
hopelessly  man-made  as  the  great  wall  was,  nothing  seemed 
artificial.  There  were  no  men  there,  no  laws  nor  con- 
flicts of  men.  The  tide  flowed  and  ebbed;  the  sun  rose 
and  set ;  regularly  each  afternoon  the  brave  west  wind  came 
romping  in  through  the  Golden  Gate,  darkening  the  water, 
cresting  tiny  wavelets,  making  the  sailboats  fly.  Every- 
thing ran  with  frictionless  order.  Everything  was  free. 
Firewood  lay  about  for  the  taking.  No  man  sold  it  by  the 
sack.  Small  boys  fished  with  poles  from  the  rocks,  with 
no  one  to  drive  them  away  for  trespass,  catching  fish  as 
Billy  had  caught  fish,  as  Cal  Hutchins  had  caught  fish. 
Billy  had  told  her  of  the  great  perch  Cal  Hutchins  caught 
on  the  day  of  the  eclipse,  when  he  had  little  dreamed  the 
heart  of  his  manhood  would  be  spent  in  convict's  garb. 

And  here  was  food,  food  that  was  free.  She  watched 
the  small  boys  on  a  day  when  she  had  eaten  nothing,  and 
emulated  them,  gathering  mussels  from  the  rocks  at  low 
water,  cooking  them  by  placing  them  among  the  coals  of 
>a  fire  she  built  on  top  of  the  wall.  They  tasted  particu- 
larly good.  She  learned  to  knock  the  small  oysters  from 
the  rocks,  and  once  she  found  a  string  of  fresh-caught 
fish  some  small  boy  had  forgotten  to  take  home  with  him. 

Here  drifted  evidences  of  man's  sinister  handiwork — 
from  a  distance,  from  the  cities.  One  flood  tide  she  found 
the  water  covered  with  muskmelons.  They  bobbed  and 
bumped  along  up  the  estuary  in  countless  thousands. 
Where  they  stranded  against  the  rocks  she  was  able  to  get 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      253 

them.  But  each  and  every  melon — and  she  patiently  tried 
scores  of  them — had  been  spoiled  by  a  sharp  gash  that  let 
in  the  salt  water.  She  could  not  understand.  She  asked 
an  old  Portuguese  woman  gathering  driftwood. 

"They  do  it,  the  people  who  have  too  much,"  the  old 
woman  explained,  straightening  her  labor-stiffened  back 
with  such  an  effort  that  almost  Saxon  could  hear  it  creak. 
The   old   woman 's   black   eyes  flashed   angrily,    and   her , 
wrinkled  lips,  drawn  tightly  across  toothless  gums,  wry  \ 
with  bitterness.     "The  people  that  have  too  much.     It  is 
to  keep  up  the  price.    They  throw  them  overboard  in  San 
Francisco. ' ' 

"But  why  don't  they  give  them  away  to  the  poor  peo- 
ple?" Saxon  asked. 

"They  must  keep  up  the  price." 

"But  the  poor  people  cannot  buy  them  anyway,"  Saxon 
objected.  "It  would  not  hurt  the  price." 

The  old  woman  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  I  do  not  know.  It  is  their  way.  They  chop  each  melon 
so  that  the  poor  people  cannot  fish  them  out  and  eat  any- 
way. They  do  the  same  with  the  oranges,  with  the  apples. 
Ah,  the  fishermen!  There  is  a  trust.  When  the  boats 
catch  too  much  fish,  the  trust  throws  them  overboard  from 
Fisherman  Wharf,  boat-loads,  and  boat-loads,  and  boat- 
loads of  the  beautiful  fish.  And  the  beautiful  good  fish 
sink  and  are  gone.  And  no  one  gets  them.  Yet  they  are 
dead  and  only  good  to  eat.  Fish  are  very  good  to  eat." 

And  Saxon  eould  not  understand  a  world  that  did  such 
things — a  world  in  which  some  men  possessed  so  much 
food  that  they  threw  it  away,  paying  men  for  their  labor 
of  spoiling  it  before  they  threw  it  away ;  and  in  the  same 
world  so  many  people  who  did  not  have  enough  food, 
whose  babies  died  because  their  mothers'  milk  was  not 
nourishing,  whose  young  men  fought  and  killed  one  an- 
other for  the  chance  to  work,  whose  old  men  and  women 
went  to  the  poorhouse  because  there  was  no  food  for  them 
in  the  little  shacks  they  wept  at  leaving.  She  wondered  if 
all  the  world  were  that  way,  and  remembered  Mercedes' 


254  THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

tales.  Yes;  all  the  world  was  that  way.  Had  not  Mer- 
cedes seen  ten  thousand  families  starve  to  death  in  that  far 
away  India,  when,  as  she  had  said,  her  own  jewels  that  she 
wore  would  have  fed  and  saved  them  all  ?  It  was  the  poor- 
house  and  the  salt  vats  for  the  stupid,  jewels  and  automo- 
biles for  the  clever  ones. 

She  was  one  of  the  stupid.  She  must  be.  The  evidence 
all  pointed  that  way.  Yet  Saxon  refused  to  accept  it. 
She  was  not  stupid.  Her  mother  had  not  been  stupid,  nor 
had  the  pioneer  stock  before  her.  Still  it  must  be  so.  Here 
she  sat,  nothing  to  eat  at  home,  her  love-husband  changed 
to  a  brute  beast  and  lying  in  jail,  her  arms  and  heart 
empty  of  the  babe  that  would  have  been  there  if  only  the 
stupid  ones  had  not  made  a  shambles  of  her  front  yard 
in  their  wrangling  over  jobs. 

She  sat  there,  racking  her  brain,  the  smudge  of  Oakland 
at  her  back,  staring  across  the  bay  at  the  smudge  of  San 
Francisco.  Yet  the  sun  was  good;  the  wind  was  good,  as 
was  the  keen  salt  air  in  her  nostrils;  the  blue  sky,  flecked 
with  clouds,  was  good.  All  the  natural  world  was  right, 
and  sensible,  and  beneficent.  It  was  the  man-world  that 
was  wrong,  and  mad,  and  horrible.  Why  were  the  stupid 
stupid?  Was  it  a  law  of  God?  No;  it  could  not  be.  God 
had  made  the  wind,  and  air,  and  sun.  The  man-world 
was  made  by  man,  and  a  rotten  job  it  was.  Yet,  and  she 
remembered  it  well,  the  teaching  in  the  orphan  asylum, 
God  had  made  everything.  Her  mother,  too,  had  believed 
this,  had  believed  in  this  God.  Things  could  not  be 
.different.  It  was  ordained. 

For  a  time  Saxon  sat  crushed,  helpless.  Then  smoldered 
protest,  revolt.  Vainly  she  asked  why  God  had  it  in  for 
her.  What  had  she  done  to  deserve  such  fate  ?  She  briefly 
reviewed  her  life  in  quest  of  deadly  sins  committed,  and 
found  them  not.  She  had  obeyed  her  mother;  obeyed 
Cady,  the  saloon-keeper,  and  Cady's  wife;  obeyed  the  ma- 
tron and  the  other  women  in  the  orphan  asylum;  obeyed 
Tom  when  she  came  to  live  in  his  house,  and  never  run  in 
the  streets  because  he  didn't  wish  her  to.  At  school  she 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      255 

had  always  been  honorably  promoted,  and  never  had  her 
deportment  report  varied  from  one  hundred  per  cent. 
She  had  worked  from  the  day  she  left  school  to  the  day  of 
her  marriage.  She  had  been  a  good  worker,  too.  The 
little  Jew  who  ran  the  paper  box  factory  had  almost  wept 
when  she  quit.  It  was  the  same  at  the  cannery.  She  was 
among  the  high-line  weavers  when  the  jute  mills  closed 
down.  And  she  had  kept  straight.  It  was  not  as  if  she 
had  been  ugly  or  unattractive.  She  had  known  her  temp- 
tations and  encountered  her  dangers.  The  fellows  had 
been  crazy  about  her.  They  had  run  after  her,  fought 
over  her,  in  a  way  to  turn  most  girls'  heads.  But  she  had 
kept  straight.  And  then  had  come  Billy,  her  reward. 
She  had  devoted  herself  to  him,  to  his  house,  to  all  that 
would  nourish  his  love;  and  now  she  and  Billy  were  sink- 
ing down  into  this  senseless  vortex  of  misery  and  heart- 
break of  the  man-made  world. 

No,  God  was  not  responsible.  She  could  have  made  a 
better  world  herself — a  finer,  squarer  world.  This  being 
so,  then  there  was  no  God.  God  could  not  make  a  botch. 
The  matron  had  been  wrong,  her  mother  had  been  wrong. 
Then  there  was  no  immortality,  and  Bert,  wild  and  crazy 
Bert,  falling  at  her  front  gate  with  his  foolish  death-cry, 
was  right.  One  was  a  long  time  dead. 

Looking  thus  at  life,  shorn  of  its  superrational  sanctions, 
Saxon  floundered  into  the  morass  of  pessimism.  There 
was  no  justification  for  right  conduct  in  the  universe,  no 
square  deal  for  her  who  had  earned  reward,  for  the  mil- 
lions who  worked  like  animals,  died  like  animals,  and 
were  a  long  time  and  forever  dead.  Like  the  hosts  of  more 
learned  thinkers  before  her,  she  concluded  that  the  uni- 
verse was  unmoral  and  without  concern  for  men. 

And  now  she  sat  crushed  in  greater  helplessness  than 
when  she  had  included  God  in  the  scheme  of  injustice. 
As  long  as  God  was,  there  was  always  chance  for  a  mir- 
acle, for  some  supernatural  intervention,  some  rewarding 
with  ineffable  bliss.  With  God  missing,  the  world  was  a 
trap.  Life  was  a  trap.  She  was  like  a  linnet,  caught  by 


256  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

small  boys  and  imprisoned  in  a  cage.  That  was  because 
the  linnet  was  stupid.  But  she  rebelled.  She  fluttered 
and  beat  her  soul  against  the  hard  face  of  things  as  did 
the  linnet  against  the  bars  of  wire.  She  was  not  stupicL 
She  did  not  belong  in  the  trap.  She  would  fight  her  way 
out  of  the  trap.  There  must  be  such  a  way  out.  When 
",anal  boys  and  rail-splitters,  the  lowliest  of  the  stupid 
lowly,  as  she  had  read  in  her  school  history,  could  find 
( their  way  out  and  become  presidents  of  the  nation  and 
rule  over  even  the  clever  ones  in  their  automobiles,  then 
could  she  find  her  way  out  and  win  to  the  tiny  reward  she 
craved — Billy,  a  little  love,  a  little  happiness.  She  would 
not  mind  that  the  universe  was  unmoral,  that  there  was 
no  God,  no  immortality.  She  was  willing  to  go  into  the 
black  grave  and  remain  in  its  blackness  forever,  to  go  into 
the  salt  vats  and  let  the  young  men  cut  her  dead  flesh  to 
sausage-meat,  if — if  only  she  could  get  her  small  meed  of 
happiness  first. 

How  she  would  work  for  that  happiness!  How  she 
would  appreciate  it,  make  the  most  of  each  least  particle 
of  it!  But  how  was  she  to  do  it?  "Where  was  the  path? 
She  could  not  vision  it.  Her  eyes  showed  her  only  the 
smudge  of  San  Francisco,  the  smudge  of  Oakland,  where 
men  were  breaking  heads  and  killing  one  another,  where 
babies  were  dying,  born  and  unborn,  and  where  women 
were  weeping  with  bruised  breasts. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

HER  vague,  unreal  existence  continued.  It  seemed  in  some 
previous  life-time  that  Billy  had  gone  away,  that  another 
life-time  would  have  to  come  before  he  returned.  She  still 
suffered  from  insomnia.  Long  nights  passed  in  succession, 
during  which  she  never  closed  her  eyes.  At  other  times 
she  slept  through  long  stupors,  waking  stunned  and 
numbed,  scarcely  able  to  open  her  heavy  eyes,  to  move  her 
weary  limbs.  The  pressure  of  the  iron  band  on  her  head 
never  relaxed.  She  was  poorly  nourished.  Nor  had  she 
a  cent  of  money.  She  often  went  a  whole  day  without 
eating.  Once,  seventy-two  hours  elapsed  without  food 
passing  her  lips.  She  dug  clams  in  the  marsh,  knocked  the 
tiny  oysters  from  the  rocks,  and  gathered  mussels. 

And  yet,  when  Bud  Strothers  came  to  see  how  she  was 
getting  along,  she  convinced  him  that  all  was  well.  One 
evening  after  work,  Tom  came,  and  forced  two  dollars 
upon  her.  He  was  terribly  worried.  He  would  like  to 
help  more,  but  Sarah  was  expecting  another  baby.  There 
had  been  slack  times  in  his  trade  because  of  the  strikes 
in  the  other  trades.  He  did  not  know  what  the  country 
was  coming  to.  And  it  was  all  so  simple.  All  they  had 
to  do  was  see  things  in  his  way  and  vote  the  way  he  voted. 
Then  everybody  would  get  a  square  deal.  Christ  was  a 
Socialist,  he  told  her. 

"Christ  died  two  thousand  years  ago,"  Saxon  said. 

""Well?"  Tom  queried,  not  catching  her  implication. 

"Think,"  she  said,  "think  of  all  the  men  and  women 
who  died  in  those  two  thousand  years,  and  socialism  has 
not  come  yet.  And  in  two  thousand  years  more  it  may  be 
as  far  away  as  ever.  Tom,  your  socialism  neve*  did  you 
any  good.  It  is  a  dream." 

257 


258  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

"It  wouldn't  be  if "  he  began  with,  a  flash  of  resent- 
ment. 

"If  they  believed  as  you  do.  Only  they  don't.  You 
don't  succeed  in  making  them." 

"But  we  are  increasing  every  year,"  he  argued. 

"Two  thousand  years  is  an  awfully  long  time,"  she  said 
quietly. 

Her  brother's  tired  face  saddened  as  he  nodded.  Then 
he  sighed: 

"Well,  Saxon,  if  it's  a  dream,  it  is  a  good  dream." 

"I  don't  want  to  dream,"  was  her  reply.  "I  want  things 
real.  I  want  them  now." 

And  before  her  fancy  passed  the  countless  genr rations 
of  the  stupid  lowly,  the  Billys  and  Saxons,  the  Berts  and 
Marys,  the  Toms  and  Sarahs.  And  to  what  end?  The 
salt  vats  and  the  grave.  Mercedes  was  a  hard  and  wicked 
woman,  but  Mercedes  was  right.  The  stupid  must  always 
be  under  the  heels  of  the  clever  ones.  Only  she,  Saxon, 
daughter  of  Daisy  who  had  written  wonderful  poems  and 
of  a  soldier-father  on  a  roan  war-horse,  daughter  of  the 
strong  generations  who  had  won  half  a  world  from  wild 
nature  and  the  savage  Indian — no,  she  was  not  stupid.  It 
was  as  if  she  suffered  false  imprisonment.  There  was 
some  mistake.  She  would  find  the  way  out. 

"With  the  two  dollars  she  bought  a  sack  of  flour  and 
half  a  sack  of  potatoes.  This  relieved  the  monotony  of 
her  clams  and  mussels.  Like  the  Italian  and  Portuguese 
women,  she  gathered  driftwood  and  carried  it  home, 
though  always  she  did  it  with  shamed  pride,  timing  her 
'arrival  so  that  it  would  be  after  dark.  One  day,  on  the 
mud-flat  side  of  the  Rock  Wall,  an  Italian  fishing  boat 
hauled  up  on  the  sand  dredged  from  the  channel.  From 
the  top  of  the  wall  Saxon  watched  the  men  grouped  about 
the  charcoal  brazier,  eating  crusty  Italian  bread  and  a 
stew  of  meat  and  vegetables,  washed  down  with  long 
draughts  of  thin  red  wine.  She  envied  them  their  free- 
dom that  advertised  itself  in  the  heartiness  of  their  meal, 
in  the  tones  of  their  chatter  and  laughter,  in  the  very  boat 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     259 

itself  that  was  not  tied  always  to  one  place  and  that  car- 
ried them  wherever  they  willed.  Afterward,  they  dragged 
a  seine  across  the  mud-flats  and  up  on  the  sand,  selecting 
for  themselves  only  the  larger  kinds  of  fish.  Many  thou- 
sands of  small  fish,  like  sardines,  they  left  dying  on  the 
sand  when  they  sailed  away.  Saxon  got  a  sackful  of  the 
fish,  and  was  compelled  to  make  two  trips  in  order  to 
carry  them  home,  where  she  salted  them  down  in  a  wooden 
washtub. 

Her  lapses  of  consciousness  continued.  The  strangest 
thing  she  did  while  in  such  condition  was  on  Sandy  Beach. 
There  she  discovered  herself,  one  windy  afternoon,  lying 
in  a  hole  she  had  dug,  with  sacks  for  blankets.  She  had 
even  roofed  the  hole  in  rough  fashion  by  means  of  drift 
wood  and  marsh  grass.  On  top  of  the  grass  she  had 
piled  sand. 

Another  time  she  came  to  herself  walking  across  the 
marshes,  a  bundle  of  driftwood,  tied  with  bale-rope,  on 
her  shoulder.  Charley  Long  was  walking  beside  her.  She 
could  see  his  face  in  the  starlight.  She  wondered  dully 
how  long  he  had  been  talking,  what  he  had  said.  Then 
she  was  curious  to  hear  what  he  was  saying.  She  was  not 
afraid,  despite  his  strength,  his  wicked  nature,  and  the 
loneliness  and  darkness  of  the  marsh. 

"It's  a  shame  for  a  girl  like  you  to  have  to  do  this," 
he  was  saying,  apparently  in  repetition  of  what  he  had 
already  urged.  "Come  on  an' say  the  word,  Saxon.  Come 
on  an'  say  the  word." 

Saxon  stopped  and  quietly  faced  him. 

"Listen,  Charley  Long.  Billy's  only  doing  thirty  days, 
and  his  time  is  almost  up.  When  he  gets  out  your  life 
won't  be  worth  a  pinch  of  salt  if  I  tell  him  you've  been 
bothering  me.  Now  listen.  If  you  go  right  now  away 
from  here,  and  stay  away,  I  won't  tell  him.  That's  all 
I've  got  to  say." 

The  big  blacksmith  stood  in  scowling  indecision,  his  face 
pathetic  in  its  fierce  yearning,  his  hands  making  uncon- 
scious, clutching  contractions. 


260  THE    VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

""Why,  you  little,  small  thing,"  he  said  desperately,  "I 
could  break  you  in  one  hand.  I  could — why,  I  could  do 
anything  I  wanted.  I  don't  want  to  hurt  you,  Saxon. 
You  know  that.  Just  say  the  word " 

"I've  said  the  only  word  I'm  going  to  say.'5 

"God!"  he  muttered  in  involuntary  admiration.  "You 
ain't  afraid.  You  ain't  afraid." 

They  faced  each  other  for  long  silent  minutes. 

"Why  ain't  you  afraid?"  he  demanded  at  last,  after 
peering  into  the  surrounding  darkness  as  if  searching  for 
her  hidden  allies. 

"Because  I  married  a  man,"  Saxon  said  briefly.  "And 
now  you'd  better  go." 

When  he  had  gone  she  shifted  the  load  of  wood  to  her 
other  shoulder  and  started  on,  in  her  breast  a  quiet 
thrill  of  pride  in  Billy.  Though  behind  prison  bars, 
still  she  leaned  against  his  strength.  The  mere  naming 
of  him  was  sufficient  to  drive  away  a  brute  like  Charley 
Long. 

On  the  day  that  Otto  Frank  was  hanged  she  remained 
indoors.  The  evening  papers  published  the  account.  There 
had  been  no  reprieve.  In  Sacramento  was  a  railroad  Gov- 
ernor who  might  reprieve  or  even  pardon  bank-wreckers 
and  grafters,  but  who  dared  not  lift  his  finger  fof  a  work- 
inginan.  All  this  was  the  talk  of  the  neighborhood.  It 
had  been  Billy's  talk.  It  had  been  Bert's  talk. 

The  next  day  Saxon  started  out  the  Rock  Wall,  and 
the  specter  of  Otto  Frank  walked  by  her  side.  And  with 
him  was  a  dimmer,  mistier  specter  that  she  recognized  as 
Billy.  Was  he,  too,  destined  to  tread  his  way  to  Otto 
Frank 's  dark  end  ?  Surely  so,  if  the  blood  and  strife  con- 
tinued. He  was  a  fighter.  He  felt  he  was  right  in  fight- 
ing. It  was  easy  to  kill  a  man.  Even  if  he  did  not  in- 
tend it,  some  time,  when  he  was  slugging  a  scab,  the  scab 
would  fracture  his  skull  on  a  stone  curbing  or  a  cement 
sidewalk.  And  then  Billy  would  hang.  That  was  why 
Otto  Frank  hanged.  He  had  not  intended  to  kill  Hender- 
son. It  was  only  by  accident  that  Henderson's  skull  was 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      261 

fractured.  Yet  Otto  Frank  had  been  hanged  for  it  just 
the  same. 

She  wrung  her  hands  and  wept  loudly  as  she  stumbled 
among  the  windy  rocks.  The  hours  passed,  and  she  was 
lost  to  herself  and  her  grief.  When  she  came  to  she  found 
herself  on  the  far  end  of  the  wall  where  it  jutted  into 
the  bay  between  the  Oakland  and  Alameda  Moles.  But 
she  could  see  no  wall.  It  was  the  time  of  the  full  moon, 
and  the  unusual  high  tide  covered  the  rocks.  She  was 
knee  deep  in  the  water,  and  about  her  knees  swam  scores 
of  big  rock  rats,  squeaking  and  fighting,  scrambling  to 
climb  upon  her  out  of  the  flood.  She  screamed  with  fright 
and  horror,  and  kicked  at  them.  Some  dived  and  swam 
away  under  water;  others  circled  about  her  warily  at  a 
distance;  and  one  big  fellow  laid  his  teeth  into  her  shoe. 
Him  she  stepped  on  and  crushed  with  her  free  foot.  By 
this  time,  though  still  trembling,  she  was  able  coolly  to  con- 
sider the  situation.  She  waded  to  a  stout  stick  of  drift- 
wood a  few  feet  away,  and  with  this  quickly  cleared  a 
space  about  herself. 

A  grinning  small  boy,  in  a  small,  bright-painted  and 
half-decked  skiff,  sailed  close  in  to  the  wall  and  let  go  his 
sheet  to  spill  the  wind. 

"Want  to  get  aboard?"  he  called. 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "There  are  thousands  of  big 
rats  here.  I'm  afraid  of  them." 

He  nodded,  ran  close  in,  spilled  the  wind  from  his  sail, 
the  boat's  way  carrying  it  gently  to  her. 

"Shove  out  its  bow,"  he  commanded.  "That's  right. 
I  don't  want  to  break  my  centerboard.  .  .  .  An'  then 
.jump  aboard  in  the  stern — quick! — alongside  of  me." 

She  obeyed,  stepping  in  lightly  beside  him.  He  held  the 
tiller  up  with  his  elbow,  pulled  in  on  the  sheet,  and  as  the 
sail  filled  the  boat  sprang  away  over  the  rippling  water, 

"You  know  boats,"  the  boy  said  approvingly. 

He  was  a  slender,  almost  frail  lad,  of  twelve  or  thirteen 
years,  though  healthy  enough,  with  sunburned  freckled 
face  and  large  gray  eyes  that  were  clear  and  wistful 


262  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

Despite  his  possession  of  the  pretty  boat,  Saxon  was  quick 
to  sense  that  he  was  one  of  them,  a  child  of  the  people. 

"First  boat  I  was  ever  in,  except  ferryboats,"  Saxon 
laughed. 

He  looked  at  her  keenly.  "Well,  you  take  to  it  like 
a  duck  to  water  is  all  I  can  say  about  it.  Where  d'ye 
want  me  to  land  you?" 

"Anywhere." 

He  opened  his  mouth  to  speak,  gave  her  another  long 
look,  considered  for  a  space,  then  asked  suddenly: 

"Got  plenty  of  time?" 

She  nodded. 

"All  day?" 

Again  she  nodded. 

"Say — I'll  tell  you,  I'm  goin'  out  on  this  ebb  to  Goat 
Island  for  rockcod,  an'  I'll  come  in  on  the  flood  this  even- 
ing. I  got  plenty  of  lines  an'  bait.  Want  to  come  along? 
We  can  both  fish.  And  what  you  catch  you  can  have." 

Saxon  hesitated.  The  freedom  and  motion  of  the  small 
boat  appealed  to  her.  Like  the  ships  she  had  envied,  it 
was  outbound. 

"Maybe  you'll  drown  me,"  she  parleyed. 

The  boy  threw  back  his  head  with  pride. 

"I  guess  I've  been  sailin'  many  a  long  day  by  myself, 
an'  I  ain't  drowned  yet." 

"All  right,"  she  consented.  "Though  remember,  I  don't 
know  anything  about  boats." 

"Aw,  that's  all  right.  Now  I'm  goin'  to  go  about, 

When  I  say  'Hard  a-lee!'  like  that,  you  duck  your  head 
so  the  boom  don't  hit  you,  an'  shift  over  to  the  other 
side." 

He  executed  the  maneuver,  Saxon  obeyed,  and  found 
herself  sitting  beside  him  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  boat, 
while  the  boat  itself,  on  the  other  tack,  was  heading  to- 
ward Long  Wharf  where  the  coal  bunkers  were.  She 
was  aglow  with  admiration,  the  more  so  because  tiie  me- 
chanics of  boat-sailing  was  to  her  a  complex  and  mysteri' 
i»us  thin~ 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     263 

" "Where  did  you  learn  it  all?"  she  inquired. 

"Taught  myself,  just  naturally  taught  myself.  I  liked 
it,  you  see,  an'  what  a  fellow  likes  he's  likeliest  to  do. 
This  is  my  second  boat.  My  first  didn't  have  a  center- 
board.  I  bought  it  for  two  dollars  an'  learned  a  lot, 
though  it  never  stopped  leaking.  What  d'ye  think  I  paid 
for  this  one?  It's  worth  twenty-five  dollars  right  now. 
What  d'ye  think  I  paid  for  it?" 

"I  give  up,"  Saxon  said.    "How  much?" 

' '  Six  dollars.  Think  of  it !  A  boat  like  this !  Of  course 
I  done  a  lot  of  work,  an'  the  sail  cost  two  dollars,  the  oars 
one  forty,  an'  the  paint  one  seventy-five.  But  just  the 
same  eleven  dollars  and  fifteen  cents  is  a  real  bargain.  It 
took  me  a  long  time  saving  for  it,  though.  I  carry  papers 
morning  and  evening — there's  a  boy  taking  my  route  for 
me  this  afternoon — I  give  'm  ten  cents,  an'  all  the  extras 
he  sells  is  his;  and  I'd  a-got  the  boat  sooner  only  I  had  to 
pay  for  my  shorthand  lessons.  My  mother  wants  me  to 
become  a  court  reporter.  They  get  sometimes  as  much  as 
twenty  dollars  a  day.  Gee!  But  I  don't  want  it.  It's 
a  shame  to  waste  the  money  on  the  lessons." 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  asked,  partly  from  idleness, 
and  yet  with  genuine  curiosity;  for  she  felt  drawn  to  this 
boy  in  knee  pants  who  was  so  confident  and  at  the  same 
time  so  wistful. 

"What  do  I  want?"  he  repeated  after  her. 

Turning  his  head  slowly,  he  followed  the  sky-line,  paus- 
ing especially  when  his  eyes  rested  landward  on  the  brown 
Contra  Costa  hills,  and  seaward,  past  Alcatraz,  on  the 
Grolden  Gate.  The  wistfulness  in  his  eyes  was  overwhelm- 
ing and  went  to  her  heart. 

"That,"  he  said,  sweeping  the  circle  of  the  world  with 
a  wave  of  his  arm. 

"That?"  she  queried. 

He  looked  at  her,  perplexed  in  that  he  had  not  made  his 
meaning  clear. 

"Don't  you  ever  feel  that  way?"  he  asked,  bidding  for 
sympathy  with  his  dream.  "Don't  you  sometimes  feel 


264  THE   VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

you'd  die  if  you  didn't  know  what's  beyond  them  hills  air 
what's  heyond  the  other  hills  behind  them  hills?  An'  the 
Golden  Gate!  There's  the  Pacific  Ocean  beyond,  and 
China,  an'  Japan,  an'  India,  an'  .  .  .  an'  all  the  coral 
islands.  You  can  go  anywhere  out  through  the  Golden 
Gate — to  Australia,  to  Africa,  to  the  seal  islands,  to  the 
Xorth  Pole,  to  Cape  Horn.  Why,  all  them  places  are  just 
waitin'  for  me  to  come  an'  see  'em.  I've  lived  in  Oak- 
land all  my  life,  but  I'm  not  going  to  live  in  Oakland  the 
vest  of  my  life,  not  by  a  long  shot.  I'm  go  in'  to  get 
away  .  .  .  away  .  .  ." 

Again,  as  words  failed  to  express  the  vastness  of  his 
desire,  the  wave  of  his  arm  swept  the  circle  of  the  world. 

Saxon  thrilled  with  him.  She  too,  save  for  her  earlier 
childhood,  had  lived  in  Oakland  all  her  life.  And  it  had 
been  a  good  place  in  which  to  live  .  .  .  until  now. 
And  now,  in  all  its  nightmare  horror,  it  was  a  place  to  get 
away  from,  as  with  her  people  the  East  had  been  a  place 
to  get  away  from.  And  why  not?  The  world  tugged  at 
her,  and  she  felt  in  touch  with  the  lad 's  desire.  Now  that 
she  thought  of  it,  her  race  had  never  been  given  to  staying 
long  in  one  place.  Always  it  had  been  on  the  move.  She 
remembered  back  to  her  mother's  tales,  and  to  the  wood 
engraving  in  her  scrapbook  where  her  half-clad  forebears, 
sword  in  hand,  leaped  from  their  lean  beaked  boats  to  do 
battle  on  the  blood-drenched  sands  of  England. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  about  the  Anglo-Saxons?"  she 
asked  the  boy. 

"You  bet!"  His  eyes  glistened,  and  he  looked  at  her 
with  new  interest.  "I'm  an  Anglo-Saxon,  every  inch  of 
me.  Look  at  the  color  of  my  eyes,  my  skin.  I'm  awful 
white  where  I  ain't  sunburned.  An'  my  hair  was  yellow 
when  I  was  a  baby.  My  mother  says  it'll  be  dark  brown 
by  the  time  I'm  grown  up,  worse  luck.  Just  the  same 
I'm  Anglo-Saxon.  I  am  of  a  fighting  race.  "We  ain't 
afraid  of  nothin'.  This  bay — think  I'm  afraid  of  it!" 
He  looked  out  over  the  water  with  flashing  eye  of  scorn, 
"Why,  I've  crossed  it  when  it  was  howlin'  an'  when  the 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     265 

scow  schooner  sailors  said  I  lied  an'  that  I  didn't.  Huh! 
They  were  only  squareheads.  "Why,  we  licked  their  kind 
thousands  of  years  ago.  We  lick  everything  we  go  up 
against.  "We've  wandered  all  over  the  world,  licking  the 
world.  On  the  sea,  on  the  land,  it's  all  the  same.  Look 
at  Lord  Nelson,  look  at  Davy  Crockett,  look  at  Paul  Jones, 
look  at  Clive,  an'  Kitchener,  an'  Fremont,  an'  Kit  Carson, 
an'  all  of  'em." 

Saxon  nodded,  while  he  continued,  her  own  eyes  shin- 
ing, and  it  came  to  her  what  a  glory  it  would  be  to  be 
the  mother  of  a  man-child  like  this.  Her  body  ached  with 
the  fancied  quickening  of  unborn  life.  A  good  stock,  a 
wood  stock,  she  thought  to  herself.  Then  she  thought  of 
herself  and  Billy,  healthy  shoots  of  that  same  stock,  yet 
condemned  to  childlessness  because  of  the  trap  of  the  man- 
made  world  and  the  curse  of  being  herded  with  the  stupid 
ones. 

She  came  back  to  the  boy. 

"My  father  was  a  soldier  in  the  Civil  "War,"  he  was 
telling  her,  "a  scout  an'  a  spy.  The  rebels  were  going 
to  hang  him  twice  for  a  spy.  At  the  battle  of  Wilson's 
Creek  he  ran  half  a  mile  with  his  captain  wounded  on  hia 
back.  He's  got  a  bullet  in  his  leg  right  now,  just  above 
tha  knee.  It's  ben  there  all  these  years.  He  let  me  feel 
it  once.  He  was  a  buffalo  hunter  and  a  trapper  before 
the  war.  He  was  sheriff  of  his  county  when  he  was  twenty 
years  old.  An'  after  the  war,  when  he  was  marshal  of 
Silver  City,  he  cleaned  out  the  bad  men  an'  gun-fighters. 
He's  ben  in  almost  every  state  in  the  Union.  He  could 
wrestle  any  man  at  the  raisings  in  his  day,  an'  he  waa 
bully  of  the  raftsmen  of  the  Susquehanna  when  he  was 
jnly  a  youngster.  His  father  killed  a  man  in  a  standup 
fight  with  a  blow  of  his  fist  when  he  was  sixty  years  old. 
An'  when  he  was  seventy-four,  his  second  wife  had  twins, 
an'  he  died  when  he  was  plowing  in  the  field  with  oxen 
when  he  was  ninety-nine  years  old.  He  just  unyoked  the 
oxen,  an'  sat  down  under  a  tree,  an'  died  there  sitting  up. 
An'  my  father's  just  like  him.  He's  pretty  old  now,  but 


266  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

he  ain't  afraid  of  nothing.  He's  a  regular  Anglo-Saxon, 
you  see.  He's  a  special  policeman,  an'  he  didn't  do  a 
thing  to  the  strikers  in  some  of  the  fightin'.  He  had  his 
face  all  cut  up  with  a  rock,  but  he  broke  his  club  short 
off  over  some  hoodlum's  head." 

He  paused  breathlessly  and  looked  at  her. 

"Gee!"  he  said.    "I'd  hate  to  a-ben  that  hoodlum." 

"My  name  is  Saxon,"  she  said. 

"Your  name?" 

"My  first  name." 

"Gee!"  he  cried.  "You're  lucky.  Now  if  mine  had  ben 
only  Erling — you  know,  Erling  the  Bold — or  Wolf,  or 
Swen,  or  Jarl!" 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"Only  John,"  he  admitted  sadly.  "But  I  don't  let 
'em  call  me  John.  Everybody's  got  to  call  me  Jack.  I've 
scrapped  with  a  dozen  fellows  that  tried  to  call  me  John 
or  Johnnie — wouldn't  that  make  you  sick? Johnnie!" 

They  were  now  off  the  coal  bunkers  of  Long  Wharf,  and 
the  boy  put  the  skiff  about,  heading  toward  San  Francisco. 
They  were  well  out  in  the  open  bay.  The  west  wind  had 
strengthened  and  was  whitecapping  the  strong  ebb  tide. 
The  boat  drove  merrily  along.  When  splashes  of  spray 
flew  aboard,  wetting  them,  Saxon  laughed,  and  the  boy 
surveyed  her  with  approval.  They  passed  a  ferryboat, 
and  the  passengers  on  the  upper  deck  crowded  to  one 
side  to  watch  them.  In  the  swell  of  the  steamer's  wake, 
the  skiff  shipped  quarter-full  of  water.  Saxon  picked 
an  empty  can  and  looked  at  the  boy. 

"That's  right,"  he  said.  "Go  ahead  an'  bale  out.'* 
And,  when  she  had  finished:  "We'll  fetch  Goat  Island 
next  tack.  Right  there  off  the  Torpedo  Station  is  where 
we  fish,  in  fifty  feet  of  water  an'  the  tide  runnin'  to 
beat  the  band.  You're  wringing  wet,  ain't  you?  Gee! 
You're  like  your  name.  You're  a  Saxon,  all  right.  Are 
you  married?" 

Saxon  nodded,  and  the  boy  frowned. 

*'What'd  you  want  to  do  that  for?    Now  you  can't  wan- 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      267 

der  over  the  world  like  I'm  going  to.  You're  tied  down. 
You're  anchored  for  keeps." 

''It's  pretty  good  to  be  married,  though,"  she  smiled. 

"Sure,  everybody  gets  married.  But  that's  no  reason  to 
be  in  a  rush  about  it.  Why  couldn't  you  wait  a  while, 
like  me?  I'm  goin'  to  get  married,  too,  but  not  until  I'm 
an  old  man  an'  have  ben  every wheres. " 

Under  the  lee  of  Goat  Island,  Saxon  obediently  sitting 
still,  he  took  in  the  sail,  and,  when  the  boat  had  drifted 
to  a  position  to  suit  him,  he  dropped  a  tiny  anchor.  He 
got  out  the  fish  lines  and  showed  Saxon  how  to  bait  her 
hooks  with  salted  minnows.  Then  they  dropped  the  lines 
to  bottom,  where  they  vibrated  in  the  swift  tide,  and 
waited  for  bites. 

"They'll  bite  pretty  soon,"  he  encouraged.  "I've  never 
failed  but  twice  to  catch  a  mess  here.  What  d'ye  say  we 
eat  while  we're  waiting?" 

Vainly  she  protested  she  was  not  hungry.  He  shared 
his  lunch  with  her  with  a  boy's  rigid  equity,  even  to 
the  half  of  a  hard-boiled  egg  and  the  half  of  a  big  red 
apple. 

Still  the  rockcod  did  not  bite.  Prom  under  the  stern- 
sheets  he  drew  out  a  cloth-bound  book. 

"Free  Library,"  he  vouchsafed,  as  he  began  to  read, 
with  one  hand  holding  the  place  while  with  the  other  lie 
waited  for  the  tug  on  the  fishline  that  would  announce 
rockcod. 

Saxon  read  the  title.    It  was  "Afloat  in  the  Forest." 

"Listen  to  this,"  he  said  after  a  few  minutes,  and  he 
read  several  pages  descriptive  of  a  great  flooded  tropical 
forest  being  navigated  by  boys  on  a  raft. 

"Think  of  that!"  he  concluded.  "That's  the  Amazon 
river  in  flood  time  in  South  America.  And  the  world's 
full  of  places  like  that — everywhere,  most  likely,  except 
Oakland.  Oakland's  just  a  place  to  start  from,  I  guess. 
Now  that 's  adventure,  I  want  to  tell  you.  Just  think  of  the 
luck  of  them  boys !  All  the  same,  some  day  I  'm  going  to  go 
over  the  Andes  to  the  headwaters  of  the  Amazon,  all 


268  THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

through  the  rubber  country,  an'  canoe  down  the  Amazon 
thousands  of  miles  to  its  mouth  where  it's  that  wide  you 
can't  see  one  bank  from  the  other  an'  where  you  can  scoop 
up  perfectly  fresh  water  out  of  the  ocean  a  hundred  miles 
from  land." 

But  Saxon  was  not  listening.  One  pregnant  sentence 
had  caught  her  fancy.  Oakland  is  just  a  place  to  itart 
from.  She  had  never  viewed  the  city  in  that  light.  She 
had  accepted  it  as  a  place  to  live  in,  as  an  end  in  itself. 
But  a  place  to  start  from !  Why  not  ?  Why  not  like  any 
railroad  station  or  ferry  depot?  Certainly,  as  things  were 
going,  Oakland  was  not  a  place  to  stop  in.  The  boy  was 
right,  It  was  a  place  to  start  from.  But  to  go  where? 
Here  she  was  halted,  and  she  was  driven  from  the  train 
of  thought  by  a  strong  pull  and  a  series  of  jerks  on  the 
line.  She  began  to  haul  in,  hand  under  hand,  rapidly 
and  deftly,  the  boy  encouraging  her,  until  hooks,  sinker, 
and  a  big  gasping  rockcod  tumbled  into  the  bottom  of  the 
boat.  The  fish  was  free  of  the  hook,  and  she  baited  afresh 
and  dropped  the  line  over.  The  boy  marked  his  place  and 
closed  the  book. 

"They'll  be  biting  soon  as  fast  as  we  can  haul  'em  in," 
he  said. 

But  the  rush  of  fish  did  not  come  immediately. 

"Did  you  ever  read  Captain  Mayne  Reid?"  he  asked. 
"Or  Captain  Marryatt?  Or  Ballantyne?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"And  you  an  Anglo-Saxon!"  he  cried  derisively. 
"Why,  there's  stacks  of  'em  in  the  Free  Library.  I  have 
two  cards,  my  mother's  an'  mine,  an'  I  draw  'em  out  all 
the  time,  after  school,  before  I  have  to  carry  my  papers. 
I  stick  the  books  inside  my  shirt,  in  front,  under  the  sus- 
penders. That  holds  'em.  One  time,  deliverin'  papers  at 
Second  an'  Market — there's  an  awful  tough  gang  of  kids 
hang  out  there — I  got  into  a  fight  with  th*;  leader.  He 
hauled  off  to  knock  my  wind  out,  an'  he  landed  square 
on  a  book.  You  ought  to  seen  his  face.  An '  then  I  landed 
on  him.  An'  then  his  whole  gang  was  goin'  to  jump  on 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON  269 

me,  only  a  couple  of  iron-molders  stepped  in  an*  saw  fair 
play.  I  gave  'em  the  books  to  hold. ' ' 

"Who  won?"  Saxon  asked. 

"Nobody,"  the  boy  confessed  reluctantly.  "I  think  I 
was  lickin'  him,  but  the  molders  called  it  a  draw  because 
the  policemen  on  the  beat  stopped  us  when  we'd  only  ben 
fightin'  half  an  hour.  But  you  ought  to  seen  the  crowd. 
I  bet  there  was  five  hundred " 

He  broke  off  abruptly  and  began  hauling  in  his  line. 
Saxon,  too,  was  hauling  in.  And  in  the  next  couple  of 
hours  they  caught  twenty  pounds  of  fish  between  them. 

That  night,  long  after  dark,  the  little,  half-decked  skiff 
sailed  up  the  Oakland  Estuary.  The  wind  was  fair  but 
light,  and  the  boat  moved  slowly,  towing  a  long  pile  which 
the  boy  had  picked  up  adrift  and  announced  as  worth  three 
dollars  anywhere  for  the  wood  that  was  in  it.  The  tide 
flooded  smoothly  under  the  full  moon,  and  Saxon  recog- 
nized the  points  they  passed — the  Transit  slip,  Sandy 
Beach,  the  shipyards,  the  nail  works,  Market  street  wharf. 
The  boy  took  the  skiff  in  to  a  dilapidated  boat-wharf  at 
the  foot  of  Castro  street,  where  the  scow  schooners,  laden 
with  sand  and  gravel,  lay  hauled  to  the  shore  in  a  long 
row.  He  insisted  upon  an  equal  division  of  the  fish,  be- 
cause Saxon  had  helped  catch  them,  though  he  explained 
at  length  the  ethics  of  flotsam  to  show  her  that  the  pile 
was  wholly  his. 

At  Seventh  and  Poplar  they  separated,  Saxon  walking 
on  alone  to  Pine  street  with  her  load  of  fish.  Tired  though 
she  was  from  the  long  day,  she  had  a  strange  feeling  of 
well-being,  and,  after  cleaning  the  fish,  she  fell  asleep 
wondering,  when  good  times  came  again,  if  she  could 
persuade  Billy  to  get  a  boat  and  go  out  with  her  on  Sun- 
days as  she  had  gone  out  that  day. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

SHE  slept  all  night,  without  stirring,  without  dreaming,, 
and  awoke  naturally  and,  for  the  first  time  in  weeks,  re- 
freshed. She  felt  her  old  self,  as  if  some  depressing 
weight  had  been  lifted,  or  a  shadow  had  been  swept  away 
from  between  her  and  the  sun.  Her  head  was  clear.  The 
seeming  iron  band  that  had  pressed  it  so  hard  was  gone. 
She  was  cheerful.  She  even  caught  herself  humming  aloud 
as  she  divided  the  fish  into  messes  for  Mrs.  Olsen,  Maggie 
Donahue,  and  herself.  She  enjoyed  her  gossip  with  each 
of  them,  and,  returning  home,  plunged  joyfully  into  the 
task  of  putting  the  neglected  house  in  order.  She  sang 
as  she  worked,  and  ever  as  she  sang  the  magic  words  of 
the  boy  danced  and  sparkled  among  the  notes:  Oakland 
is  just  a  place  to  start  from. 

Everything  was  clear  as  print.  Her  and  Billy's  prob- 
lem was  as  simple  as  an  arithmetic  problem  at  school:  to 
carpet  a  room  so  many  feet  long,  so  many  feet  wide;  to 
paper  a  room  so  many  feet  high,  so  many  feet  around. 
She  had  been  sick  in  her  head,  she  had  had  strange  lapses, 
she  had  been  irresponsible.  Very  well.  All  this  had  been 
because  of  her  troubles — troubles  in  which  she  had  had 
no  hand  in  the  making.  Billy's  case  was  hers  precisely. 
He  had  behaved  strangely  because  he  had  been  irresponsi- 
ble. And  all  their  troubles  were  the  troubles  of  the  trap. 
Oakland  was  the  trap.  Oakland  was  a  good  place  to  start 
from. 

She  reviewed  the  events  of  her  married  life.  The  strikes 
and  the  hard  times  had  caused  everything.  If  it  had  not 
been  for  the  strike  of  the  shopmen  and  the  fight  in  her  front 
yard,  she  would  not  have  lost  her  baby.  If  Billy  had 
not  been  made  desperate  by  the  idleness  and  the  hopeless 
270 


THE  TALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     271 

fight  of  the  teamsters,  he  would  not  have  taken  to  drink- 
ing. If  they  had  not  been  hard  up,  they  would  not  have 
taken  a  lodger,  and  Billy  would  not  be  in  jail. 

Her  mind  was  made  up.  The  city  was  no  place  for  her 
and  Billy,  no  place  for  love  nor  for  babies.  The  way  out 
.was  simple.  They  would  leave  Oakland.  It  was  the  stupid 
jthat  remained  and  bowed  their  heads  to  fate.  But  she  and 
LBilly  were  not  stupid.  They  would  not  bow  their  heads. 

"They  would  go  forth  and  face  fate. Where,  she  did  not 

know.  But  that  would  come.  The  world  was  large.  Be- 
yond the  encircling  hills,  out  through  the  Golden  Gate, 
somewhere  they  would  find  what  they  desired.  The  boy 
had  been  wrong  in  one  thing.  She  was  not  tied  to  Oak- 
land, even  if  she  was  married.  The  world  was  free  to 
her  and  Billy  as  it  had  been  free  to  the  wandering  gen- 
erations before  them.  It  was  only  the  stupid  who  had 
been  left  behind  everywhere  in  the  race's  wandering.  Th« 
strong  had  gone  on.  Well,  she  and  Billy  were  strong. 
They  would  go  on,  over  the  brown  Contra  Costa  hills  or  out 
through  the  Golden  Gate. 

The  day  before  Billy's  release  Saxon  completed  her 
meager  preparations  to  receive  him.  She  was  without 
money,  and,  except  for  her  resolve  not  to  offend  Billy  in 
that  way  again,  she  would  have  borrowed  ferry  fare  from 
Maggie  Donahue  and  journeyed  to  San  Francisco  to  sell 
some  of  her  personal  pretties.  As  it  was,  with  bread  and 
potatoes  and  salted  sardines  in  the  house,  she  went  out 
at  the  afternoon  low  tidb  and  dug  clams  for  a  chowder. 
Also,  she  gathered  a  load  of  driftwood,  and  it  was  nine 
in  the  evening  when  she  emerged  from  the  marsh,  on  her 
shoulder  a  bundle  of  wood  and  a  short-handled  spade,  in 
her  free  hand  the  pail  of  clams.  She  sought  the  darker 
side  of  the  street  at  the  corner  and  hurried  across  the  zone 
of  electric  light  to  avoid  detection  by  the  neighbors.  But 
a  woman  came  toward  her,  looked  sharply  and  stopped 
in  front  of  her.  It  was  Mary. 

''My  God,  Saxon!"  she  exclaimed.  "Is  it  as  bad  at 
this?" 


272  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

Saxon  looked  at  her  old  friend  curiously,  with  a  swift 
glance  that  sketched  all  the  tragedy.  Mary  was  thinner, 
though  there  was  more  color  in  her  cheeks — color  of  which 
Saxon  had  her  doubts.  Mary's  bright  eyes  were  hand- 
somer, larger — too  large,  too  feverish  bright,  too  restless. 
She  was  well  dressed — too  well  dressed;  and  she  was  suf- 
fering from  nerves.  She  turned  her  head  apprehensively 
to  glance  into  the  darkness  behind  her. 

"My  God!"  Saxon  breathed.  "And  you  .  .  ."She 
shut  her  lips,  then  began  anew.  "Come  along  to  the 
house,"  she  said. 

"If  you're  ashamed  to  be  seen  with  me— — "  Mary 
blurted,  with  one  of  her  old  quick  angers. 

"No,  no,"  Saxon  disclaimed.  "It's  the  driftwood  and 
the  clams.  I  don't  want  the  neighbors  to  know.  Come 
along." 

"No;  I  can't,  Saxon.  I'd  like  to,  but  I  can't.  I've  got 
to  catch  the  next  train  to  Frisco.  I  've  ben  waitin '  around. 
I  knocked  at  your  back  door.  But  the  house  was  dark. 
Billy's  still  in,  ain't  he?" 

"Yes,  he  gets  out  to-morrow." 

"I  read  about  it  in  the  papers,'*  Mary  went  on  hur- 
riedly, looking  behind  her.  "I  was  in  Stockton  when  it 
happened."  She  turned  upon  Saxon  almost  savagely. 
"'You  don't  blame  me,  do  you?  I  just  couldn't  go  back 
to  work  after  bein'  married.  I  was  sick  of  work.  Played 
out,  I  guess,  an'  no  good  anyway.  But  if  you  only  knew 
how  I  hated  the  laundry  even  before  I  got  married.  It's 
a  dirty  world.  You  don't  dream.  Saxon,  honest  to  God, 
you  could  never  guess  a  hundredth  part  of  its  dirtiness. 
Oh,  I  wish  I  was  dead,  I  wish  I  was  dead  an'  out  of  it 
all.  Listen — no,  I  can't  now.  There's  the  down  train 
puffin'  at  Adeline.  I'll  have  to  run  for  it.  Can  I 
come " 

"Aw,  get  a  move  on,  can't  you?"  a  man's  voice  inter- 
rupted. 

Behind  her  the  speaker  had  partly  emerged  from  the 
darkness.  No  workingman.  Saxon  could  see  that — lower 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOGN     273 

in  the  world  scale,  despite  his  good  clothes,  than  any  work- 
ingman. 

"I'm  comin',  if  you'll  only  wait  a  second,"  Mary  pla- 
cated. 

And  by  her  answer  and  its  accents  Saxon  knew  that 
Mary  was  afraid  of  this  man  who  prowled  on  the  rim  of 
light. 

Mary  turned  to  her. 

"I  got  to  beat  it;  good  bye,"  she  said,  fumbling  Li  the 
palm  of  her  glove. 

She  caught  Saxon's  free  hand,  and  Saxon  felt  a  small 
hot  coin  pressed  into  it.  She  tried  to  resist,  to  force 
it  back. 

"No,  no,"  Mary  pleaded.  "For  old  times.  You  can 
do  as  much  for  me  some  day.  I'll  see  you  again.  Good 
bye." 

Suddenly,  sobbing,  she  threw  her  arms  around  Saxon's 
waist,  crushing  the  feathers  of  her  hat  against  the  load 
of  wood  as  she  pressed  her  face  against  Saxon's  breast. 
Then  she  tore  herself  away  to  arm's  length,  passionate, 
quivering,  and  stood  gazing  at  Saxon. 

"Aw,  get  a  hustle,  get  a  hustle,"  came  from  the  dark- 
ness the  peremptory  voice  of  the  man. 

"Oh,  Saxon!"  Mary  sobbed;  and  was  gone. 

In  the  house,  the  lamp  lighted,  Saxon  looked  at  the 
coin.  It  was  a  five-dollar  piece — to  her,  a  fortune.  Then 
she  thought  of  Mary,  and  of  the  man  of  whom  she  waa 
afraid.  Saxon  registered  another  black  mark  against  Oak- 
land. Mary  was  one  more  destroyed.  They  lived  only 
five  years,  on  the  average,  Saxon  had  heard  somewhere. 
She  looked  at  the  coin  and  tossed  it  into  the  kitchen  sink. 
"When  she  cleaned  the  clams,  she  heard  the  coin  tinkle 
down  the  vent  pipe. 

It  was  the  thought  of  Billy,  next  morning,  that  led 
Saxon  to  go  under  the  sink,  unscrew  the  cap  to  the  catch- 
trap,  and  rescue  the  five-dollar  piece.  Prisoners  were  not 
well  fed,  she  had  been  told;  and  the  thought  of  placing 
clams  and  dry  bread  before  Billy,  after  thirty  days  of 


274  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

prison  fare,  was  too  appalling  for  her  to  contemplate.  She 
knew  how  he  liked  to  spread  his  butter  on  thick,  how  he 
liked  thick,  rare  steak  fried  on  a  dry  hot  pan,  and  how 
he  liked  coffee  that  was  coffee  and  plenty  of  it. 

Not  until  after  nine  o'clock  did  Billy  arrive,  and  she 
was  dressed  in  her  prettiest  house  gingham  to  meet  him. 
She  peeped  on  him  as  he  came  slowly  up  the  front  steps, 
and  she  would  have  run  out  to  him  except  for  a  group 
of  neighborhood  children  who  were  staring  from  across 
the  street.  The  door  opened  before  him  as  his  hand 
reached  for  the  knob,  and,  inside,  he  closed  it  by  backing 
against  it,  for  his  arms  were  filled  with  Saxon.  No,  he  had 
not  had  breakfast,  nor  did  he  want  any  now  that  he  had 
her.  He  had  only  stopped  for  a  shave.  He  had  stood  the 
barber  off,  and  he  had  walked  all  the  way  from  the  City 
Hall  because  of  lack  of  the  nickel  carfare.  But  he'd  like 
a  bath  most  mighty  well,  and  a  change  of  clothes.  She 
mustn't  come  near  him  until  he  was  clean. 

"When  all  this  was  accomplished,  he  sat  in  the  kitchen 
and  watched  her  cook,  noting  the  driftwood  she  put  in  the 
Btove  and  asking  about  it.  While  she  moved  about,  she 
told  how  she  had  gathered  the  wood,  how  she  had  managed 
to  live  and  not  be  beholden  to  the  union,  and  by  the  time 
they  were  seated  at  the  table  she  was  telling  him  about 
her  meeting  with  Mary  the  night  before.  She  did  not 
mention  the  five  dollars. 

Billy  stopped  chewing  the  first  mouthful  of  steak.  His 
expression  frightened  her.  He  spat  the  meat  out  on  his 
plate. 

"You  got  the  money  to  buy  the  meat  from  her,"  he  ac- 
cused slowly.  "You  had  no  money,  no  more  tick  with  the 
butcher,  yet  here's  meat.  Am  I  right?" 

Saxon  could  only  bend  her  head. 

The  terrifying,  ageless  look  had  come  into  his  face,  the 
bleak  and  passionless  glaze  into  his  eyes,  which  she  had 
first  seen  on  the  day  at  Weasel  Park  when  he  had  fought 
with  the  three  Irishmen. 

"What  else  did  you  buy?"  he  demanded — not  roughly, 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     275 

not  angrily,  but  with  the  fearful  coldness  of  a  rage  that 
words  could  not  express. 

To  her  surprise,  she  had  grown  calm.  What  did  it 
matter?  It  was  merely  what  one  must  expect,  living  in 
Oakland — something  to  be  left  behind  when  Oakland  was 
a  thing  behind,  a  place  started  from. 

"The  coffee,"  she  answered.     "And  the  butter." 

He  emptied  his  plate  of  meat  and  her  plate  into  the 
{frying  pan,  likewise  the  roll  of  butter  and  the  slice  on  the 
table,  and  on  top  he  poured  the  contents  of  the  coffee  can- 
ister. All  this  he  carried  into  the  back  yard  and  dumped 
in  the  garbage  can.  The  coffee  pot  he  emptied  into  the 
sink. 

"How  much  of  the  money  you  got  left?"  he  next 
wanted  to  know. 

Saxon  had  already  gone  to  her  purse  and  taken  it  out. 

"Three  dollars  and  eighty  cents,"  she  counted,  hand- 
ing it  to  him.  "I  paid  forty-five  cents  for  the  steak." 

He  ran  his  eye  over  the  money,  counted  it,  and  went  to 
the  front  door.  She  heard  the  door  open  and  close,  and 
knew  that  the  silver  had  been  flung  into  the  street.  When 
he  came  back  to  the  kitchen,  Saxon  was  already  serving 
him  fried  potatoes  on  a  clean  plate. 

"Nothing's  too  good  for  the  Robertses,"  he  said;  "but, 
by  God,  that  sort  of  truck  is  too  high  for  my  stomach. 
It's  so  high  it  stinks." 

He  glanced  at  the  fried  potatoes,  the  fresh  slice  of  dry 
bread,  and  the  glass  of  water  she  was  placing  by  his 
plate. 

"It's  all  right,"  she  smiled,  as  he  hesitated.  "There's 
nothing  left  that's  tainted." 

He  shot  a  swift  glance  at  her  face,  as  if  for  sarcasm, 
then  sighed  and  sat  down.  Almost  immediately  he  was 
up  again  and  holding  out  his  arms  to  her. 

"I'm  goin'  to  eat  in  a  minute,  but  I  want  to  talk  to 
you  first,"  he  said,  sitting  down  and  holding  her  closely. 
"Besides,  that  water  ain't  like  coffee.  Gettin'  cold  won't 
spoil  it  none.  Now,  listen.  You're  the  only  one  I  got 


276  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

in  this  world.  You  wasn't  afraid  of  me  an'  what  I  just 
done,  an'  I'm  glad  of  that.  Now  we'll  forget  all  about 
Mary.  I  got  charity  enough.  I'm  just  as  sorry  for  her 
as  you.  I'd  do  anything  for  her.  I'd  wash  her  feet  for 
her  like  Christ  did.  I'd  let  her  eat  at  my  table,  an'  sleep 
under  my  roof.  But  all  that  ain't  no  reason  I  should 
touch  anything  she's  earned.  Now  forget  her.  It's  you/ 
an'  me,  Saxon,  only  you  an'  me  an'  to  hell  with  the  rest 
of  the  world.  Nothing  else  counts.  You  won't  never  have' 
to  be  afraid  of  me  again.  Whisky  an'  I  don't  mix  very 
well,  so  I'm  goin'  to  cut  whisky  out.  I've  ben  clean  off 
my  nut,  an'  I  ain't  treated  you  altogether  right.  But 
that's  all  past.  It  won't  never  happen  again.  I'm  goin' 
to  start  out  fresh. 

"Now  take  this  thing.  I  oughtn't  to  acted  so  hasty. 
But  I  did.  I  oughta  talked  it  over.  But  I  didn't.  My 
damned  temper  got  the  best  of  me,  an'  you  know  I  got 
one.  If  a  fellow  can  keep  his  temper  in  boxin',  why  he 
can  keep  it  in  bein'  married,  too.  Only  this  got  me  too 
sudden-like.  It's  something  I  can't  stomach,  that  I  never 
could  stomach.  An'  you  wouldn't  want  me  to  any  more'n 
I'd  want  you  to  stomach  something  you  just  couldn't." 

She  sat  up  straight  on  his  knees  and  looked  at  him,  afire 
with  an  idea. 

"You  mean  that,  Billy?" 

"Sure  I  do." 

"Then  I'll  tell  you  something  I  can't  stomach  any  more. 
I'll  die  if  I  have  to." 

"Well?"  he  questioned,  after  a  searching  pause. 

"It's  up  to  you,"  she  said. 

"Then  fire  away." 

"You  don't  know  what  you're  letting  yourself  in  for," 
she  warned.  "Maybe  you'd  better  back  out  before  it's  too 
late." 

He  shook  his  head  stubbornly. 

"What  you  don't  want  to  stomach  you  ain't  goin'  to 
stomach.  Let  her  go." 

"First,"  she  commenced,  "no  more  slugging  of  scabs." 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      277 

His  mouth  opened,  but  he  checked  the  involuntary  pro- 
test. 

"And,  second,  no  more  Oakland." 

"I  don't  get  that  last." 

"No  more  Oakland.  No  more  living  in  Oakland.  I'll 
'die  if  I  have  to.  It's  pull  up  stakes  and  get  out." 

He  digested  this  slowly. 

"Where?"  he  asked  finally. 

"Anywhere.  Everywhere.  Smoke  a  cigarette  and  think 
it  over." 

He  shook  his  head  and  studied  her. 

' '  You  mean  that  ?  "  he  asked  at  length. 

"I  do.  I  want  to  chuck  Oakland  just  as  hard  as  you 
wanted  to  chuck  the  beefsteak,  the  coffee,  and  the  butter." 

She  could  see  him  brace  himself.  She  could  feel  him 
brace  his  very  body  ere  he  answered. 

"All  right  then,  if  that's  what  you  want.  We'll  quit 
Oakland.  We'll  quit  it  cold.  God  damn  it,  anyway,  it 
never  done  nothin'  for  me,  an'  I  guess  I'm  husky  enough 
to  scratch  for  us  both  anywheres.  An'  now  that's  settled, 
just  tell  me  what  you  got  it  in  for  Oakland  for." 

And  she  told  him  all  she  had  thought  out,  marshaled  all 
the  facts  in  her  indictment  of  Oakland,  omitting  nothing, 
not  even  her  last  visit  to  Doctor  Hentley's  office  nor 
Billy's  drinking.  He  but  drew  her  closer  and  proclaimed 
his  resolves  anew.  The  time  passed.  The  fried  potatoes 
grew  cold,  and  the  stove  went  out. 

When  a  pause  came,  Billy  stood  up,  still  holding  her. 
-He  glanced  at  the  fried  potatoes. 

,  "Stone  cold,"  he  said,  then  turned  to  her.  "Come  on. 
Put  on  your  prettiest.  We're  goin'  up  town  for  some- 
thing to  eat  an'  to  celebrate.  I  guess  we  got  a  celebration 
comin',  seein'  as  we're  going  to  pull  up  stakes  an'  pull 
our  freight  from  the  old  burg.  An'  we  won't  have  to 
walk.  I  can  borrow  a  dime  from  the  barber,  an'  I  got 
enough  junk  to  hock  for  a  blowout." 

His  junk  proved  to  be  several  gold  medals  won  in  hia 
amateur  days  at  boxing  tournaments.  Once  up  town  and 


278  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

in  the  pawnshop,  Uncle  Sam  seemed  thoroughly  versed  iu 
the  value  of  the  medals,  and  Billy  jingled  a  handful  of 
silver  in  his  pocket  as  they  walked  out. 

He  was  as  hilarious  as  a  boy,  and  she  joined  in  his  good 
spirits.  When  he  stopped  at  a  corner  cigar  store  to  buy  a 
sack  of  Bull  Durham,  he  changed  his  mind  and  bought 
Imperials. 

"Oh,  I'm  a  regular  devil,"  he  laughed.  ''Nothing's  too 
good  to-day — not  even  tailor-made  smokes.  An'  no  chop 
houses  nor  Jap  joints  for  you  an'  me.  It's  Barnum's." 

They  strolled  to  the  restaurant  at  Seventh  and  Broad- 
way where  they  had  had  their  wedding  supper. 

"Let's  make  believe  we're  not  married,"  Saxon  sng- 


"Sure,"  he  agreed,  " an'  take  a  private  room  so  as 

the  waiter '11  have  to  knock  on  the  door  each  time  he  comes 
in." 

Saxon  demurred  at  that. 

"It  will  be  too  expensive,  Billy.  You'll  have  to  tip  him 
for  the  knocking.  We'll  take  the  regular  dining  room." 

"Order  anything  you  want,"  Billy  said  largely,  when 
they  were  seated.  "Here's  family  porterhouse,  a  dollar 
an'  a  half.  What  d'ye  say?" 

"And  hash-browned,"  she  abetted,  "and  coffee  extra 
special,  and  some  oysters  first — I  want  to  compare  them 
with  the  rock  oysters." 

Billy  nodded,  and  looked  up  from  the  bill  of  fare. 

"Here's  mussels  bordelay.  Try  an  order  of  them,  too, 
an'  see  if  they  beat  your  Rock  Wall  ones." 

"Why  not?"  Saxon  cried,  her  eyes  dancing.  "The 
world  is  ours.  We're  just  travelers  through  this  town." 

"Yep,  that's  the  stuff,"  Billy  muttered  absently.  He 
was  looking  at  the  theater  column.  He  lifted  his  eyes 
from  the  paper.  "Matinee  at  Bell's.  We  can  get  re- 
served seats  for  a  quarter.  Doggone  the  luck  any- 
way!" 

His  exclamation  was  so  aggrieved  and  violent  that  it 
brought  alarm  into  her  eyes. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     279 

"If  I'd  only  thought,"  he  regretted,  "we  could  a-gone 
to  the  Forum  for  grub.  That's  the  swell  joint  where  fel- 
lows like  Roy  Blanchard  hangs  out,  blowin'  the  money 
we  sweat  for  them." 

They  bought  reserved  tickets  at  Bell's  Theater;  but  it 
was  too  early  for  the  performance,  and  they  went  down 
Broadway  and  into  the  Electric  Theater  to  while  away 
the  time  on  a  moving  picture  show.  A  cowboy  film  was 
«un  off,  and  a  French  comic;  then  came  a  rural  drama 
situated  somewhere  in  the  Middle  West.  It  began  with  a 
farm  yard  scene.  The  sun  blazed  down  on  a  corner  of 
a  barn  and  on  a  rail  fence  where  the  ground  lay  in  the 
mottled  shade  of  large  trees  overhead.  There  were  chick- 
ens, ducks,  and  turkeys,  scratching,  waddling,  moving 
about.  A  big  sow,  followed  by  a  roly-poly  litter  of  seven 
little  ones,  marched  majestically  through  the  chickens,  root- 
ing them  out  of  the  way.  The  hens,  in  turn,  took  it  out 
on  the  little  porkers,  pecking  them  when  they  strayed  too 
far  from  their  mother.  And  over  the  top  rail  a  horse 
looked  drowsily  on,  ever  and  anon,  at  mathematically  pre- 
cise intervals,  switching  a  lazy  tail  that  flashed  high  lights 
in  the  sunshine. 

"It's  a  warm  day  and  there  are  flies — can't  you  just 
feel  it?"  Saxon  whispered. 

"Sure.  An'  that  horse's  tail!  It's  the  most  natural 
-aver.  Gee !  I  bet  he  knows  the  trick  of  clampin '  it  down 
over  the  reins.  I  wouldn't  wonder  if  his  name  was  Iron 
Tail." 

A  dog  ran  upon  the  scene.  The  mother  pig  turned  tail 
and  with  short  ludicrous  jumps,  followed  by  her  progeny 
and  pursued  by  the  dog,  fled  out  of  the  film.  A  young 
girl  came  on,  a  sunbonnet  hanging  down  her  back,  her 
apron  caught  up  in  front  and  filled  with  grain  which  she1 
threw  to  the  fluttering  fowls.  Pigeons  flew  down  from  the 
top  of  the  film  and  joined  in  the  scrambling  feast.  The 
dog  returned,  wading  scarcely  noticed  among  the  feathered 
creatures,  to  wag  his  tail  and  laugh  up  at  the  girl.  And, 
behind,  the  horse  nodded  over  the  rail  and  switched  on 


280  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

A  young  man  entered,  his  errand  immediately  known  to 
an  audience  educated  in  moving  pictures.  But  Saxon  had 
no  eyes  for  the  love-making,  the  pleading  forcefulness,  the 
shy  reluctance,  of  man  and  maid.  Ever  her  gaze  wan- 
dered back  to  the  chickens,  to  the  mottled  shade  under  the 
trees,  to  the  warm  wall  of  the  barn,  to  the  sleepy  horse  t 
with  its  ever  recurrent  whisk  of  tail. 

She  drew  closer  to  Billy,  and  her  hand,  passed  around 
his  arm,  sought  his  hand. 

"Oh,  Billy,"  she  sighed.  "I'd  just  die  of  happiness  in 
a  place  like  that. "  And,  when  the  film  was  ended :  "We 
got  lots  of  time  for  Bell's.  Let's  stay  and  see  that  one 
over  again." 

They  sat  through  a  repetition  of  the  performance,  and 
when  the  farm  yard  scene  appeared,  the  longer  Saxon 
looked  at  it  the  more  it  affected  her.  And  this  time  she 
took  in  further  details.  She  saw  fields  beyond,  rolling 
hills  in  the  background,  and  a  cloud-flecked  sky.  She 
identified  some  of  the  chickens,  especially  an  obstreperous 
old  hen  who  resented  the  thrust  of  the  sow's  muzzle,  par- 
ticularly pecked  at  the  little  pigs,  and  laid  about  her  with 
a  vengeance  when  the  grain  fell.  Saxon  looked  back  across 
the  fields  to  the  hills  and  sky,  breathing  the  spaciousness  of 
it,  the  freedom,  the  content.  Tears  welled  into  her  eyes  and 
she  wept  silently,  happily. 

"I  know  a  trick  that'd  fix  that  old  horse  if  he  ever 
clamped  his  tail  down  on  me,"  Billy  whispered. 

"Now  I  know  where  we're  going  when  we  leave  Oak- 
land," she  informed  him. 

"Where?" 

"There." 

He  looked  at  her,  and  followed  her  gaze  to  the  screen. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  and  cogitated.  "An'  why  shouldn't  we?" 
he  added. 

"Oh,  Billy,  will  you?" 

Her  lips  trembled  in  her  eagerness,  and  her  whisper 
broke  and  was  almost  'naudible. 

"Sure,"  he   said.     It  was  his   day   of   royal  largess. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     281 

"What  you  want  is  yourn,  an'  I'll  scratch  my  fingers  off 
for  it.  An'  I've  always  had  a  hankerin'  for  the  country 
myself.  Say !  I  Ve  known  horses  like  that  to  sell  for  half 
the  price,  an'  I  can  cure  'em  of  the  habit." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

IT  was  early  evening  when  they  got  off  the  car  at  Sev- 
enth and  Pine  on  their  way  home  from  Bell's  Theater. 
Billy  and  Saxon  did  their  little  marketing  together,  then 
separated  at  the  corner,  Saxon  to  go  on  to  the  house  and 
prepare  supper,  Billy  to  go  and  see  the  boys — the  teamsters 
who  had  fought  on  in  the  strike  during  his  month  of  retire- 
ment. 

' '  Take  care  of  yourself,  Billy, ' '  she  called,  as  he  started 
off. 

"Sure,"  he  answered,  turning  his  face  to  her  over  his 
shoulder. 

Her  heart  leaped  at  the  smile.  It  was  his  old,  unsullied 
love-smile  which  she  wanted  always  to  see  on  his  face — 
for  which,  armed  with  her  own  wisdom  and  the  wisdom  of 
Mercedes,  she  would  wage  the  utmost  woman 's  war  to  pos- 
sess. A  thought  of  this  flashed  brightly  through  her  brain, 
and  it  was  with  a  proud  little  smile  that  she  remembered 
all  her  pretty  equipment  stored  at  home  in  the  bureau 
and  the  chest  of  drawers. 

Three-quarters  of  an  hour  later,  supper  ready,  all  but 
the  putting  on  of  the  lamb  chops  at  the  sound  of  his  step, 
Saxon  waited.  She  heard  the  gate  click,  but  instead  of 
his  step  she  heard  a  curious  and  confused  scraping  of 
many  steps.  She  flew  to  open  the  door.  Billy  stood  there, 
but  a  different  Billy  from  the  one  she  had  parted  from 
so  short  a  time  before.  A  small  boy,  beside  him,  held  his 
hat.  His  face  had  been  fresh- washed,  or,  rather,  drenched, 
for  his  shirt  and  shoulders  were  wet.  His  pale  hair  lay 
damp  and  plastered  against  his  forehead,  and  was  dark- 
ened by  oozing  blood.  Both  arms  hung  limply  by  his 
side.  But  his  face  was  composed,  and  he  even  grinned. 
283- 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     283 

"It's  all  right,"  he  reassured  Saxon.  "The  joke's  on 
ire.  Somewhat  damaged  but  still  in  the  ring."  He 

stepped  gingerly  across  the  threshold.  " Come  on  in, 

you  fellows.  We're  all  mutts  together." 

He  was  followed  in  by  the  boy  with  his  hat,  by  Bud 
Strothers  and  another  teamster  she  knew,  and  by  two 
strangers.  The  latter  were  big,  hard-featured,  sheepish- 
faced  men,  who  stared  at  Saxon  as  if  afraid  01  her. 

"  It 's  all  right,  Saxon, ' '  Billy  began,  but  was  interrupted 
by  Bud. 

"First  thing  is  to  get  him  on  the  bed  an'  cut  his 
clothes  off  him.  Both  arms  is  broke,  and  here  are  the 
ginks  that  done  it." 

He  indicated  the  two  strangers,  who  shuffled  their  feet 
with  embarrassment  and  looked  more  sheepish  than  ever. 

Billy  sat  down  on  the  bed,  and  while  Saxon  held  the 
lamp,  Bud  and  the  strangers  proceeded  to  cut  coat,  shirt, 
and  undershirt  from  him. 

"He  wouldn't  go  to  the  receivin'  hospital,"  Bud  said 
to  Saxon. 

£<Not  on  your  life,"  Billy  concurred.  "I  had  'em  send 
for  Doc  Hentley.  He'll  be  here  any  minute.  Them  two 
arms  is  all  I  got.  They've  done  pretty  well  by  me,  an' 

I  gotta  do  the  same  by  them.  No  medical  students  a- 

learnin'  their  trade  on  me." 

"But  how  did  it  happen?"  Saxon  demanded,  looking 
from  Billy  to  the  two  strangers,  puzzled  by  the  amity  that 
so  evidently  existed  among  them  all. 

"Oh,  they're  all  right,"  Billy  dashed  in.  "They  done 
it  through  mistake.  They're  Frisco  teamsters,  an'  they 
come  over  to  help  us — a  lot  of  'em." 

The  two  teamsters  seemed  to  cheer  up  at  this,  and 
nodded  their  heads. 

"Yes,  missus,"  one  of  them  rumbled  hoarsely.  "It's  all 
a  mistake,  an'  .  .  .  well  the  joke's  on  us." 

"The  drinks,  anyway, "  Billy  grinned. 

Not  only  was  Saxon  not  excited,  but  she  was  scarcely 
perturbed.  What  had  happened  was  only  to  be  expected. 


284  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

It  was  in  line  with  all  that  Oakland  had  already  done  to 
her  and  hers,  and,  besides,  Billy  was  not  dangerously  hurt. 
Broken  arms  and  a  sore  head  would  heal.  She  brought 
chairs  and  seated  everybody. 

"Now  tell  me  what  happened,"  she  begged.  "I'm  all 
at  sea,  what  of  you  two  hurleys  breaking  my  husband's 
arms,  then  seeing  him  home  and  holding  a  love-fest  with 
him." 

"An'  you  got  a  right,"  Bud  Strothers  assured  her. 
"You  see,  it  happened  this  way " 

"You  shut  up,  Bud,"  Billy  broke  in.  "You  didn't  see 
anything  of  it." 

Saxon  looked  to  the  San  Francisco  teamsters. 

"We'd  come  over  to  lend  a  hand,  seein'  as  the  Oakland 
boys  was  gettin'  some  the  short  end  of  it,"  one  spoke  up, 
"an'  we've  sure  learned  some  scabs  there's  better  trades 
than  drivin'  team.  Well,  me  an'  Jackson  here  was  nosin' 
around  to  see  what  we  can  see,  when  your  husband  comes 
moseyin'  along.  When  he " 

"Hold  on,"  Jackson  interrupted.  "Get  it  straight  as 
you  go  along.  We  reckon  we  know  the  boys  by  sight. 
But  your  husband  we  ain't  never  seen  around,  him 
bein'  .  .  ." 

"As  you  might  say,  put  away  for  a  while,"  the  first 
teamster  took  up  the  tale.  "So,  when  we  sees  what  we 
thinks  is  a  scab  dodgin'  away  from  us  an'  takin'  the  short- 
cut through  the  alley " 

"The  alley  back  of  Campbell's  grocery,"  Billy  eluci- 
date.d. 

' '  Yep,  back  of  the  grocery, ' '  the  first  teamster  went  on ; 
"why,  we're  sure  he's  one  of  them  squarehead  scabs,  hired 
through  Murray  an'  Eeady,  makin'  a  sneak  to  get  into 
the  stables  over  the  back  fences." 

"We  caught  one  there,  Billy  an'  me,"  Bud  interpolated. 

"So  we  don 't  waste  any  time, ' '  Jackson  said,  addressing 
himself  to  Saxon.  "We've  done  it  before,  an'  we  know 
how  to  do  'em  up  brown  an'  tie  'em  with  baby  ribbon. 
So  we  catch  your  husband  right  in  the  alley." 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     285 

"I  was  lookin'  for  Bud,"  said  Billy.  "The  boys  told 
me  I'd  find  him  somewhere  around  the  other  end  of  the 
alley.  An'  the  first  thing  I  know,  Jackson,  here,  asks  me 
for  a  match." 

"An'  right  there's  where  I  get  in  my  fine  work,"  re- 
sumed the  first  teamster. 

"What?"  asked  Saxon. 

"That."  The  man  pointed  to  the  wound  in  Billy's 
scalp.  "I  laid  'm  out.  He  went  down  like  a  steer, 
an'  got  up  on  his  knees  dippy,  a-gabblin'  about  some- 
body standin'  on  their  foot.  He  didn't  know  where 
he  was  at,  you  see,  clean  groggy.  An'  then  we  done 
it." 

The  man  paused,  the  tale  told. 

"Broke  both  his  arms  with  the  crowbar,"  Bud  supple- 
mented. 

"That's  when  I  come  to  myself,  when  the  bones  broke," 
Billy  corroborated.  "An'  there  was  the  two  of  'em  givin' 
me  the  ha-ha.  'That'll  last  you  some  time,'  Jackson  was 
savin'.  An'  Anson  says,  'I'd  like  to  see  you  drive  horses 
with  them  arms.'  An'  then  Jackson  says,  'Let's  give  'm 
something  for  luck.'  An'  with  that  he  fetched  me  a  wal- 
lop on  the  jaw " 

"No,"  corrected  Anson.     "That  wallop  was  mine." 

""Well,  it  sent  me  into  dreamland  over  again,"  Billy 
sighed.  "An'  when  I  come  to,  here  was  Bud  an'  Anson 
an'  Jackson  sousin'  me  at  a  water  trough.  An'  then  we 
dodged  a  reporter  an'  all  come  home  together." 

Bud  Strothers  held  up  his  fist  and  indicated  freshly 
abraded  skin. 

"The  reporter-guy  just  insisted  on  samplin'  it,"  he  said. 
Then,  to  Billy:  "That's  why  I  cut  around  Ninth  an' 
caught  up  with  you  down  on  Sixth." 

A  few  minutes  later  Doctor  Hentley  arrived,  and  drove 
the  men  from  the  rooms.  They  waited  till  he  had  finished, 
to  assure  themselves  of  Billy's  well  being,  and  then  de- 
parted. In  the  kitchen  Doctor  Hentley  washed  his  hands 
and  gave  Saxon  final  instructions.  As  he  dried  himself 


286  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

he  sniffed  the  air  and  looked  toward  the  stove  where  a  pot 
was  simmering. 

"Clams,"  he  said.    "Where  did  you  buy  them?" 

"I  didn't  buy  them,"  replied  Saxon.  "I  dug  them 
myself." 

"Not  in  the  marsh?"  he  asked  with  quickened  interest. 

"Yes." 

"Throw  them  away.  Throw  them  out.  They're  death 
and  corruption.  Typhoid — I've  got  three  cases  now,  all 
traced  to  the  clams  and  the  marsh." 

When  he  had  gone,  Saxon  obeyed.  Still  another  mark 
against  Oakland,  she  reflected — Oakland,  the  man-trap, 
that  poisoned  those  it  could  not  starve. 

"If  it  wouldn't  drive  a  man  to  drink,"  Billy  groaned, 
when  Saxon  returned  to  him.  "Did  you  ever  dream  such 
luck?  Look  at  all  my  fights  in  the  ring,  an'  never  a 
broken  bone,  an'  here,  snap,  snap,  just  like  that,  two  arms 
smashed." 

"Oh,  it  might  be  worse,"  Saxon  smiled  cheerfully. 

"I'd  like  to  know  how." 

"It  might  have  been  your  neck." 

"An'  a  good  job.  I  tell  you,  Saxon,  you  gotta  show 
me  anything  worse." 

"I  can,"  she  said  confidently. 

"Well?" 

"Well,  wouldn't  it  be  worse  if  you  intended  staying  on 
in  Oakland  where  it  might  happen  again?" 

"I  can  see  myself  becomin'  a  farmer  an'  plowin'  with 
a  pair  of  pipe-stems  like  these,"  he  persisted. 

"Doctor  Hentley  says  they'll  be  stronger  at  the  break 
than  ever  before.  And  you  know  yourself  that's  true  of 
clean-broken  bones.  Now  you  close  your  eyes  and  go  to 
sleep.  You're  all  done  up,  and  you  need  to  keep  your 
brain  quiet  and  stop  thinking." 

He  closed  his  eyes  obediently.  She  slipped  a  cool  hand 
under  the  nape  of  his  neck  and  let  it  rest. 

"That  feels  good,"  he  murmured.  "You're  so  cool, 
Saxon.  Your  hand,  and  you,  all  of  you.  Bein'  with  you 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     287 

is  like  comin'  out  into  the  cool  night  after  dancin'  in  a 
hot  room." 

After  several  minutes  of  quiet,  he  began  to  giggle. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  nothin'.  I  was  just  thinkin' — thinking  of  them 
mutts  doin'  me  up — me,  that's  done  up  more  scabs  than  I 
can  remember." 

Next  morning  Billy  awoke  with  his  blues  dissipated. 
From  the  kitchen  Saxon  heard  him  painfully  wrestling 
strange  vocal  acrobatics. 

"I  got  a  new  song  you  never  heard,"  he  told  her  when 
she  came  in  with  a  cup  of  coffee.  "I  only  remember  the 
chorus  though.  It's  the  old  man  talkin'  to  some  hobo 
of  a  hired  man  that  wants  to  marry  his  daughter.  Mamie, 
that  Billy  Murphy  used  to  run  with  before  he  got  married, 
used  to  sing  it.  It's  a  kind  of  a  sobby  song.  It  used  to 
always  give  Mamie  the  weeps.  Here 's  the  way  the  chorus 
goes — an'  remember,  it's  the  old  man  spielin'." 

And  with  great  solemnity  and  excruciating  flatting,  Billy 
sang: 

"O  treat  my  daughter  kind-i-ly, 

An'  say  you'll  do  no  harm, 
An'  when  I  die  I'll  will  to  you 

My  little  house  an'  farm — 
My  horse,  my  plow,  my  sheep,  my  cow, 

An'  all  them  little  chickens  in  the  ga-a-rden. 

"It's  them  little  chickens  in  the  garden  that  gets  me," 
he  explained.  "That's  how  I  remembered  it — from  the 
chickens  in  the  movin'  pictures  yesterday.  An'  some  day 
we'll  have  little  chickens  in  the  garden,  won't  we,  old 
girl?" 

"And  a  daughter,  too,"  Saxon  amplified. 

"An'  I'll  be  the  old  geezer  sayin'  them  same  words  to 
the  hired  man,"  Billy  carried  the  fancy  along.  "It  don't 
take  long  to  raise  a  daughter  if  you  ain't  in  a  hurry." 

Saxon  took  her  long-neglected  ukulele  from  its  case  and 
strummed  it  into  tune. 


288  THE   VALLEY   OP    THE   MOON 

"And  I've  a  song  you  never  heard,  Billy.  Tom's  always 
singing  it.  He's  crazy  about  taking  up  government  land 
and  going  farming,  only  Sarah  won't  think  of  it.  He 
sings  it  something  like  this: 

"We'll  have  a  little  farm, 

A  pig,  a  horse,  a  cow, 
And  you  will  drive  the  wagon, 
And  I  will  drive  the  plow." 

"Only  in  this  case  I  guess  it's  me  that'll  do  the  plow- 
in',"  Billy  approved.  "Say,  Saxon,  sing  'Harvest  Days.' 
That's  a  farmer's  song,  too." 

After  that  she  feared  the  coffee  was  growing  cold  and 
compelled  Billy  to  take  it.  In  the  helplessness  of  two 
broken  arms,  he  had  to  be  fed  like  a  baby,  and  as  she  fed 
him  they  talked. 

"I'll  tell  you  one  thing,"  Billy  said,  between  mouthfuls. 
' '  Once  we  get  settled  down  in  the  country  you  '11  have  that 
horse  you've  ben  wishin'  for  all  your  life.  An'  it'll  be 
all  your  own,  to  ride,  drive,  sell,  or  do  anything  you  want 
with." 

And,  again,  he  ruminated:  "One  thing  that'll  come 
handy  in  the  country  is  that  I  know  horses;  that's  a  big 
start.  I  can  always  get  a  job  at  that — if  it  ain't  at  union 
wages.  An'  the  other  things  about  farmin'  I  can  learn 

fast  enough.  Say,  d'ye  remember  that  day  you  first 

told  me  about  wantin'  a  horse  to  ride  all  your  life?" 

Saxon  remembered,  and  it  was  only  by  a  severe  struggle 
that  she  was  able  to  keep  the  tears  from  welling  into  her 
eyes.  She  seemed  bursting  with  happiness,  and  she  was 
remembering  many  things — all  the  warm  promise  of  life 
with  Billy  that  had  been  hers  in  the  days  before  hard 
times.  And  now  the  promise  was  renewed  again.  Since 
its  fulfillment  had  not  come  to  them,  they  were  going  away 
to  fulfill  it  for  themselves  and  make  the  moving  pictures 
come  true. 

Impelled  by  a  half-feigned  fear,  she  stole  away  into  the 
kitchen  bedroom  where  Bert  had  died,  to  study  her  face  in 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     289 

the  bureau  mirror.  No,  she  decided;  she  was  little 
changed.  She  was  still  equipped  for  the  battlefield  of  love. 
Beautiful  she  was  not.  She  knew  that.  But  had  not 
Mercedes  said  that  the  great  women  of  history  who  had 
won  men  had  not  been  beautiful?  And  yet,  Saxon  in- 
sisted, as  she  gazed  at  her  reflection,  she  was  anything  but 
unlovely.  She  studied  her  wide  gray  eyes  that  were  so 
very  gray,  that  were  always  alive  with  light  and  vivacities, 
where,  in  the  surface  and  depths,  always  swam  thoughts 
unuttered,  thoughts  that  sank  down  and  dissolved  to  give 
place  to  other  thoughts.  The  brows  were  excellent — she 
realized  that.  Slenderly  penciled,  a  little  darker  than  her 
light  brown  hair,  they  just  fitted  her  irregular  nose  that 
was  feminine  but  not  weak,  that  if  anything  was  piquant 
and  that  picturesquely  might  be  declared  impudent. 

She  could  see  that  her  face  was  slightly  thin,  that  the 
red  of  her  lips  was  not  quite  so  red,  and  that  she  had 
lost  some  of  her  quick  coloring.  But  all  that  would  come 
back  again.  Her  mouth  was  not  of  the  rosebud  type  she 
saw  in  the  magazines.  She  paid  particular  attention  to 
it.  A  pleasant  mouth  it  was,  a  mouth  to  be  joyous  with, 
a  mouth  for  laughter  and  to  make  laughter  in  others. 
She  deliberately  experimented  with  it,  smiled  till  the  cor- 
ners dented  deeper.  And  she  knew  that  when  she  smiled 
her  smile  was  provocative  of  smiles.  She  laughed  with  her 
eyes  alone — a  trick  of  hers.  She  threw  back  her  head 
and  laughed  with  eyes  and  mouth  together,  between  her 
spread  lips  showing  the  even  rows  of  strong  white  teeth. 

And  she  remembered  Billy's  praise  of  her  teeth,  the 
night  at  Germania  Hall  after  he  had  told  Charley  Long 
he  was  standing  on  his  foot.  ' '  Not  big,  and  not  little  dinky 
baby's  teeth  either,"  Billy  had  said,  "  ...  just 
right,  and  they  fit  you."  Also,  he  had  said  that  to  look 
at  them  made  him  hungry,  and  that  they  were  good 
enough  to  eat. 

She  recollected  all  the  compliments  he  had  ever  paid 
her.  Beyond  all  treasures,  these  were  treasures  to  her — 
the  love  phrases,  praises,  and  admirations.  He  had  said 


290  THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

her  skin  was  cool — soft  as  velvet,  too,  and  smooth  as  silk. 
She  rolled  tip  her  sleeve  to  the  shoulder,  brushed  her 
cheek  with  the  white  skin  for  a  test,  with  deep  scrutiny 
examined  the  fineness  of  its  texture.  And  he  had  told 
her  that  she  was  sweet;  that  he  hadn't  known  what  it 
meant  when  they  said  a  girl  was  sweet,  not  until  he  had 
known  her.  And  he  had  told  her  that  her  voice  was 
cool,  that  it  gave  him  the  feeling  her  hand  did  when  it 
rested  on  his  forehead.  Her  voice  went  all  through  him, 
he  had  said,  cool  and  fine,  like  a  wind  of  coolness.  And  he 
had  likened  it  to  the  first  of  the  sea  breeze  setting  in  in 
the  afternoon  after  a  scorching  hot  morning.  And,  also, 
when  she  talked  low,  that  it  was  round  and  sweet,  like  the 
'cello  in  the  Macdonough  Theater  orchestra. 

He  had  called  her  his  Tonic  Kid.  He  had  called  her  a 
thoroughbred,  clean-cut  and  spirited,  all  fine  nerves  and 
delicate  and  sensitive.  He  had  liked  the  way  she  carried 
her  clothes.  She  carried  them  like  a  dream,  had  been  his 
way  of  putting  it.  They  were  part  of  her,  just  as  much  as 
the  cool  of  her  voice  and  skin  and  the  scent  of  her  hair. 

And  her  figure!  She  got  upon  a  chair  and  tilted  the 
mirror  so  that  she  could  see  herself  from  hips  to  feet.  She 
drew  her  skirt  back  and  up.  The  slender  ankle  was  just  as 
slender.  The  calf  had  lost  none  of  its  delicately  mature 
swell.  She  studied  her  hips,  her  waist,  her  bosom,  her 
neck,  the  poise  of  her  head,  and  sighed  contentedly.  Billy 
must  be»right,  and  he  had  said  that  she  was  built  like  a 
French  woman,  and  that  in  the  matter  of  lines  and  form 
she  could  give  Annette  Kellerman  cards  and  spades. 

He  had  said  so  many  things,  now  that  she  recalled  them 
all  at  one  time.  Her  lips!  The  Sunday  he  proposed  he 
had  said :  "I  like  to  watch  your  lips  talking.  It 's  funny, 
but  every  move  they  make  looks  like  a  tickly  kiss."  And 
afterward,  that  same  day:  "You  looked  good  to  me  from 
the  first  moment  I  spotted  you."  He  had  praised  her 
housekeeping.  He  had  said  he  fed  better,  lived  more  com- 
fortably, held  up  his  end  with  the  fellows,  and  saved 
money.  And  she  remembered  that  day  when  he  had 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      291 

crushed  her  in  his  arms  and  declared  she  was  the  greatest 
little  bit  of  a  woman  that  had  ever  come  down  the  pike. 

She  ran  her  eyes  over  all  herself  in  the  mirror  again, 
gathered  herself  together  into  a  wiiole,  compact  and  good 
to  look  upon — delicious,  she  knew.  Yes,  she  would  do. 
Magnificent  as  Billy  was  in  his  man  way,  in  her  own  way 
she  was  a  match  for  him.  Yes,  she  had  done  well  by 
Billy.  She  deserved  much — all  he  could  give  her,  the 
best  he  could  give  her.  But  she  made  no  blunder  of  ego- 
tism. Frankly  valuing  herself,  she  as  frankly  valued 
him.  When  he  was  himself,  his  real  self,  not  harassed  by 
trouble,  not  pinched  by  the  trap,  not  maddened  by  drink, 
her  man-boy  and  lover,  he  was  well  worth  all  she  gave  him 
or  could  give  him. 

Saxon  gave  herself  a  farewell  look.  No.  She  was  not 
dead,  any  more  than  was  Billy's  love  dead,  than  was  her 
love  dead.  All  that  was  needed  was  the  proper  soil,  and 
their  love  would  grow  and  blossom.  And  they  were  turn- 
ing their  backs  upon  Oakland  to  go  and  seek  that  proper 
soil. 

"Oh,  Billy!"  she  called  through  the  partition,  still 
standing  on  the  chair,  one  hand  tipping  the  mirror  for- 
ward and  back,  so  that  she  was  able  to  run  her  eyes  from 
the  reflection  of  her  ankles  and  calves  to  her  face,  warm 
with  color  and  roguishly  alive. 

"Yes?"  she  heard  him  answer. 

"I'm.  loving  myself,"  she  called  back. 

"What's  the  game?"  came  his  puzzled  query.  "What 
are  you  so  stuck  on  yourself  f or ! " 

"Because  you  love  me,"  she  answered.  "I  love  every 
bit  of  me,  Billy,  because  .  .  .  because  .  .  .  well," 
because  you  love  every  bit  of  me." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

BETWEEN  feeding  and  caring  for  Billy,  doing  the  house* 
work,  making  plans,  and  selling  her  store  of  pretty  needle- 
work, the  days  flew  happily  for  Saxon.  Billy's  consent  to 
sell  her  pretties  had  been  hard  to  get,  but  at  last  she  suc- 
ceeded in  coaxing  it  out  of  him. 

"It's  only  the  ones  I  haven't  used,"  she  urged;  "and 
I  can  always  make  more  when  we  get  settled  somewhere." 

What  she  did  not  sell,  along  with  the  household  linen 
and  hers  and  Billy's  spare  clothing,  she  arranged  to  store 
with  Tom. 

"Go  ahead,"  Billy  said.  "This  is  your  picnic.  What 
you  say  goes.  You're  Robinson  Crusoe  an'  I'm  your  raan 
Friday.  Made  up  your  mind  yet  which  way  you're  goin' 
to  travel?" 

Saxon  shook  her  head. 

"Or  how?" 

She  held  up  one  foot  and  then  the  other,  encased  in 
stout  walking  shoes  which  she  had  begun  that  morning  to 
break  in  about  the  house. 

"Shank's  mare,  eh?" 

"It's  the  way  our  people  came  into  the  West,"  she  said 
proudly. 

"It'll  be  regular  trampin',  though,"  he  argued.  "An9 
I  never  heard  of  a  woman  tramp. ' ' 

"Then  here's  one.  Why,  Billy,  there's  no  shame  in 
tramping.  My  mother  tramped  most  of  the  way  across 
the  Plains.  And  'most  everybody  else's  mother  tramped 
across  in  those  days.  I  don't  care  what  people  will  think. 
I  guess  our  race  has  been  on  the  tramp  since  the  beginning 
of  creation,  just  like  we'll  be,  looking  for  a  piece  of  land 
that  looked  good  to  settle  down  on." 
292 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     293 

After  a  few  days,  when  his  scalp  was  sufficiently  healed 
and  the  bone-knitting  was  nicely  in  process,  Billy  was  able 
to  be  up  and  about.  He  was  still  quite  helpless,  however, 
with  both  his  arms  in  splints. 

Doctor  Hentley  not  only  agreed,  but  himself  suggested, 
that  his  bill  should  wait  against  better  times.  *""•  settle- 
ment. Of  government  land,  in  response  to  Saxon  w  ^3?' 
questioning,  he  knew  nothing,  except  that  he  had  a  hazy 
idea  that  the  days  of  government  land  were  over. 

Tom,  on  the  contrary,  was  confident  that  there  waa 
plenty  of  government  land.  He  talked  of  Honey  Lake, 
of  Shasta  County,  and  of  Humboldt. 

"But  you  can't  tackle  it  at  this  time  of  year,  with 
winter  comin'  on,"  he  advised  Saxon.  "The  thing  for 
you  to  do  is  head  south  for  warmer  weather — say  along 
the  coast.  It  don't  snow  down  there.  I  tell  you  what 
you  do.  Go  down  by  San  Jose  and  Salinas  an'  come  out 
on  the  coast  at  Monterey.  South  of  that  you'll  find  gov- 
ernment land  mixed  up  with  forest  reserves  and  Mexican 
rancheros.  It's  pretty  wild,  without  any  roads  to  speak- 
of.  All  they  do  is  handle  cattle.  But  there's  some  fine 
redwood  canyons,  with  good  patches  of  farming  ground, 
that  run  right  down  to  the  ocean.  I  was  talkin*  last  year 
with  a  fellow  that 's  ben  all  through  there.  An '  I  'd  a-gone, 
like  you  an'  Billy,  only  Sarah  wouldn't  hear  of  it.  There's 
gold  down  there,  too.  Quite  a  bunch  is  in  there  pros- 
pectin',  an'  two  or  three  good  mines  have  opened.  But 
that's  farther  along  and  in  a  ways  from  the  coast.  You 
might  take  a  look." 

Saxon  shook  her  head.  "We're  not  looking  for  gold  but 
for  chickens  and  a  place  to  grow  vegetables.  Our  folks 
had  all  the  chance  for  gold  in  the  early  days,  and  what 
have  they  got  to  show  for  it?" 

"I  guess  you're  right,"  Tom  conceded.  "They  always 
played  too  big  a  game,  an'  missed  the  thousand  little 
chances  right  under  their  nose.  Look  at  your  pa.  I've 
heard  him  tell  of  selling  three  Market  street  lots  in  San 
Francisco  for  fifty  dollars  each.  They're  worth  five  hun- 


294  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

dred  thousand  right  now.  An'  look  at  Uncle  Will.  He 
had  ranches  till  the  cows  come  home.  Satisfied  ?  No.  He 
wanted  to  be  a  cattle  king,  a  regular  Miller  and  Lux.  An* 
when  he  died  he  was  a  night  watchman  in  Los  Angeles 
at  forty  dollars  a  month.  There's  a  spirit  of  the  times,  an' 
'the  spirit  of  the  times  has  changed.  It's  all  big  business 
now,  an'  we're  the  small  potatoes.  Why,  I've  heard  our 
folks  talk  of  livin'  in  the  Western  Reserve.  That  was  all 
around  what's  Ohio  now.  Anybody  could  get  a  farm 
them  days.  All  they  had  to  do  was  yoke  their  oxen  an'  go 
after  it,  an*  the  Pacific  Ocean  thousands  of  miles  to  the 
west,  an'  all  them  thousands  of  miles  an'  millions  of  farms 
just  waitin'  to  be  took  up.  A  hundred  an'  sixty  acres? 
Shucks!  In  the  early  days  in  Oregon  they  talked  six 
hundred  an'  forty  acres. 

"That  was  the  spirit  of  them  times — free  land,  an* 
plenty  of  it.  But  when  we  reached  the  Pacific  Ocean  them 
times  was  ended.  Big  business  begun;  an'  big  business 
means  big  business  men ;  an '  every  big  business  man  means 
thousands  of  little  men  without  any  business  at  all  except 
to  work  for  the  big  ones.  They're  the  losers,  don't  you 
see?  An'  if  they  don't  like  it  they  can  lump  it,  but  it 
won't  do  them  no  good.  They  can't  yoke  up  their  oxen 
an'  pull  on.  There's  no  place  to  pull  on.  China's  over 
there,  an'  in  between 's  a  mighty  lot  of  salt  water  that's 
no  good  for  farmin'  purposes." 

"That's  all  clear  enough,"  Saxon  commented. 

"Yes,"  her  brother  went  on.  "We  can  all  see  it  after 
rit's  happened,  when  it's  too  late." 

"But  the  big  men  were  smarter,"  Saxon  remarked. 
}  ' '  They  were  luckier, ' '  Tom  contended.  ' '  Some  won,  but 
most  lost,  an'  just  as  good  men  lost.  It  was  almost  like 
a  lot  of  boys  scramblin'  on  the  sidewalk  for  a  handful 
of  small  change.  Not  that  some  didn't  have  far-seein'. 
But  just  take  your  pa,  for  example.  He  come  of  good 
Down  East  stock  that's  got  business  instinct  an'  can  add 
to  what  it's  got.  Now  suppose  your  pa  had  developed  a 
weak  heart,  or  got  kidney  disease,  or  caught  rheumatism,  so 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     295 

he  couldn't  go  gallivantin'  an'  rainbow  chasin',  an'  fightin* 
an'  explorin'  all  over  the  West.  Why,  most  likely 
he'd  a  settled  down  in  San  Francisco — he'd  a-had  to — 
an'  held  onto  them  three  Market  street  lots,  an'  bought 
more  lots,  of  course,  an'  gone  into  steamboat  companies, 
an'  stock  gamblin',  an'  railroad  buildin',  an'  Comstock- 
tunnelin'. 

"Why,  he'd  a-become  big  business  himself.  I  know  'HL 
He  was  the  most  energetic  man  I  ever  saw,  think  quick 
as  a  wink,  as  cool  as  an  icicle  an'  as  wild  as  a  Comanche. 
Why,  he'd  a-cut  a  swath  through  th«  free  an'  easy  big  busi- 
ness gamblers  an'  pirates  of  them  days;  just  as  he  cut  a 
swath  through  the  hearts  of  the  ladies  when  he  went  gal- 
lopin'  past  on  that  big  horse  of  his,  sword  clatterin',  spurs 
jinglin',  his  long  hair  flyin',  straight  as  an  Indian,  clean- 
built  an'  graceful  as  a  blue-eyed  prince  out  of  a  fairy 
book  an'  a  Mexican  caballero  all  rolled  into  one;  just  as 
he  cut  a  swath  through  the  Johnny  Rebs  in  Civil  War 
days,  chargin'  with  his  men  all  the  way  through  an'  back 
again,  an'  yellin'  like  a  wild  Indian  for  more.  Cady,  that 
helped  raise  you,  told  me  about  that.  Cady  rode  with 
your  pa. 

"Why,  if  your  pa'd  only  got  laid  up  in  San  Francisco, 
he  would  a-ben  one  of  the  big  men  of  the  West.  An'  in 
that  case,  right  now,  you'd  be  a  rich  young  woman,  trav- 
elin'  in  Europe,  with  a  mansion  on  Nob  Hill  along  with 
the  Floods  and  Crockers,  an'  holdin'  majority  stock  most 
likely  in  the  Fairmount  Hotel  an'  a  few  little  concerns 
like  it.  An'  why  ain't  you?  Because  your  pa  wasn't 
smart?  No.  His  mind  was  like  a  steel  trap.  It's  because 
he  was  filled  to  burstin'  an'  spillin'  over  with  the  spirit 
of  the  times;  because  he  was  full  of  fire  an'  vinegar  an* 
couldn't  set  down  in  one  place.  That's  all  the  difference 
between  you  an'  the  young  women  right  now  in  the  Flood 
and  Crocker  families.  Your  father  didn't  catch  rheuma- 
tism at  the  right  time,  that's  all." 

Saxon  sighed,  then  smiled. 

"Just  the  same,  I've  got  them  beaten,"  she  said.    "The 


296  THE   VALLEY   OP    THE   MOON 

Miss  Floods  and  Miss  Oockers  can't  marry  prizefighters, 
and  I  did." 

Tom  looked  at  her,  taken  aback  for  the  moment,  with 
admiration,  slowly  at  first,  growing  in  his  face. 

"Well,  all  I  got  to  say,"  he  enunciated  solemnly,  "is 
that  Billy's  so  lucky  he  don't  know  how  lucky  he  is." 

Not  until  Doctor  Hentley  gave  the  word  did  the  splinta 
come  off  Billy's  arms,  and  Saxon  insisted  upon  an  addi- 
tional two  weeks'  delay  so  that  no  risk  would  be  run. 
These  two  weeks  would  complete  another  month's  rent, 
and  the  landlord  had  agreed  to  wait  payment  for  the  last 
two  months  until  Billy  was  on  his  feet  again. 

Salinger's  awaited  the  day  set  by  Saxon  for  taking  back 
their  furniture.  Also,  they  had  returned  to  Billy  seventy' 
five  dollars. 

"The  rest  you've  paid  will  be  rent,"  the  collector  told 
Saxon.  "And  the  furniture's  second  hand  now,  too.  The 
deal  will  be  a  loss  to  Salinger's,  and  they  didn't  have  to 
do  it,  either;  you  know  that.  So  just  remember  they've 
been  pretty  square  with  you,  and  if  you  start  over  again 
don't  forget  them." 

Out  of  this  sum,  and  out  of  what  was  realized  from 
Saxon's  pretties,  they  were  able  to  pay  all  their 
small  bills  and  yet  have  a  few  dollars  remaining  in 
pocket. 

"I  hate  owin'  things  worse 'n  poison,"  Billy  said  to 
Saxon.  "An'  now  we  don't  owe  a  soul  in  this  world  ex- 
cept the  landlord  an'  Doc  Hentley." 

"And  neither  of  them  can  afford  to  wait  longer  than 
J  they  have  to,"  she  said. 

"And  they  won't,"  Billy  answered  quietly. 

She  smiled  her  approval,  for  she  shared  with  Billy  his 
horror  of  debt,  just  as  both  shared  it  with  that  early  tide 
of  pioneers  with  a  Puritan  ethic,  which  had  settled  the 
West. 

Saxon  timed  her  opportunity  when  Billy  was  out  of  the 
house  to  pack  the  chest  of  drawers  which  had  crossed  the 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      297 

Atlantic  by  sailing  ship  and  the  Plains  by  ox  team.  She 
kissed  the  bullet  hole  in  it,  made  in  the  fight  at  Little 
Meadow,  as  she  kissed  her  father's  sword,  the  while  she 
visioned  him,  as  she  always  did,  astride  his  roan  war- 
horse.  With  the  old  religious  awe,  she  pored  over  her 
mother's  poems  in  the  scrap-book,  and  clasped  her  moth- 
er's red  satin  Spanish  girdle  about  her  in  a  farewell  em- 
brace. She  unpacked  the  scrap-book  in  order  to  gaze  a 
last  time  at  the  wood  engraving  of  the  Vikings,  sword  in * 
hand,  leaping  upon  the  English  sands.  Again  she  identi- 
fied Billy  as  one  of  the  Vikings,  and  pondered  for  a  space 
on  the  strange  wanderings  of  the  seed  from  which  she 
sprang.  Always  had  her  race  been  land-hungry,  and  she 
took  delight  in  believing  she  had  bred  true;  for  had  not 
she,  despite  her  life  passed  in  a  city,  found  this  same 
land-hunger  in  her?  And  was  she  not  going  forth  to  sat- 
isfy that  hunger,  just  as  her  people  of  old  time  had  done, 
as  her  father  and  mother  before  her?  She  remembered 
her  mother's  tale  of  how  the  promised  land  looked  to  them 
as  their  battered  wagons  and  weary  oxen  dropped  down 
through  the  early  winter  snows  of  the  Sierras  to  the  vast 
and  flowering  sun-land  of  California.  In  fancy,  herself 
a  child  of  nine,  she  looked  down  from  the  snowy  heights 
as  her  mother  must  have  looked  down.  She  recalled  and 
repeated  aloud  one  of  her  mother's  stanzas: 

"  'Sweet  as  a  wind-lute's  airy  strains 

Your  gentle  muse  has  learned  to  sing, 
And  California's  boundless  plains 
Prolong  the  soft  notes  echoing.'  ' 

She  sighed  happily  and  dried  her  eyes.  Perhaps  the 
hard  times  were  past.  Perhaps  they  had  constituted  her 
Plains,  and  she  and  Billy  had  won  safely  across  and  were 
even  then  climbing  the  Sierras  ere  they  dropped  down  into 
the  pleasant  valley  land. 

Salinger's  wagon  was  at  the  house,  taking  out  the  fur- 
niture, the  morning  they  left.  The  landlord,  standing  at 


298  tfHE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

the  gate,  received  the  keys,  shook  hands  with  them,  and 
wished  them  luck. 

"You're  goin'  at  it  right,"  he  congratulated  them. 
"Sure  an'  wasn't  it  under  me  roll  of  blankets  I  tramped 
into  Oakland  meself  forty  year  ago?  Buy  land,  like  me, 
when  it's  cheap.  It'll  keep  you  from  the  poorhouse  in 
your  old  age.  There's  plenty  of  new  towns  springin'  up. 
Get  in  on  the  ground  floor.  The  work  of  your  hands  11 
keep  you  in  food  an'  under  a  roof,  an'  the  land '11  make 
you  well  to  do.  An'  you  know  me  address.  "When  you 
can  spare  send  me  along  that  small  bit  of  rent.  An'  good 
luck.  An'  don't  mind  what  people  think.  'Tie  them  that 
looks  that  finds. ' ' 

Curious  neighbors  peeped  from  behind  the  blinds  as 
Billy  and  Saxon  strode  up  the  street,  while  the  children 
gazed  at  them  in  gaping  astonishment.  On  Billy's  back, 
inside  a  painted  canvas  tarpaulin,  was  slung  the  roll  of 
bedding.  Inside  the  roll  were  changes  of  underclothing 
and  odds  and  ends  of  necessaries.  Outside,  from  the  lash- 
ings, depended  a  frying  pan  and  cooking  pail.  In  his  hand 
he  carried  the  coffee  pot.  Saxon  carried  a  small  telescope 
basket  protected  by  black  oilcloth,  and  across  her  back  was 
the  tiny  ukulele  case. 

"We  must  look  like  holy  frights,"  Billy  grumbled, 
shrinking  from  every  gaze  that  was  bent  upon  him. 

"It'd  be  all  right,  if  we  were  going  camping,"  Saxon 
consoled. 

"Only  we're  not." 

* '  But  they  don 't  know  that, ' '  she  continued.  "  It 's  only 
you  know  that,  and  what  you  think  they're  thinking  isn't 
what  they're  thinking  at  all.  Most  probably  they  think 
we're  going  camping.  And  the  best  of  it  is  we  are  going 
camping.  We  are!  We  are!" 

At  this  Billy  cheered  up,  though  he  muttered  his  firm 
intention  to  knock  the  block  off  of  any  guy  that  got  fresh. 
He  stole  a  glance  at  Saxon.  Her  cheeks  were  red,  her 
eyes  glowing. 

"Say,"  he  said  suddenly.    "I  seen  an  opera  once,  where 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     299 

fellows  wandered  over  the  country  with  guitars  slung  on 
their  backs  just  like  you  with  that  strummy-strum.  You 
made  me  think  of  them.  They  was  always  singin'  songs." 

"That's  what  I  brought  it  along  for,"  Saxon  answered. 
"And  when  we  go  down  country  roads  we'll  sing  as  we 
go  along,  and  we'll  sing  by  the  campfires,  too.  We're  going 
!  camping,  that's  all.  Taking  a  vacation  and  seeing  the 
country.  So  why  shouldn't  we  have  a  good  time?  Why, 
we  don't  even  know  where  we're  going  to  sleep  to-night, 
or  any  night.  Think  of  the  fun!" 

"It's  a  sporting  proposition  all  right,  all  right,"  Billy 
considered.  "But,  just  the  same,  let's  turn  off  an*  go 
around  the  block.  There's  some  fellows  I  know,  standin' 
ap  there  on  the  next  corner,  an'  I  don  I  want  to  knock 
*heir  blocks  off." 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOOJii 
BOOK  III 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  electric  car  ran  as  far  as  Hay  wards,  but  at  Saxon's 
suggestion  they  got  off  at  San  Leandro. 

"It  doesn't  matter  where  we  start  walking,"  she  said, 
"for  start  to  walk  somewhere  we  must.  And  as  we're 
looking  for  land  and  finding  out  about  land,  the  quicker 
we  begin  to  investigate  the  better.  Besides,  we  want  to 
know  all  about  all  kinds  of  land,  close  to  the  big  cities  as 
well  as  back  in  the  mountains." 

"Gee! — this  must  be  the  Porchugeeze  headquarters," 
was  Billy's  reiterated  comment,  as  they  walked  through 
San  Leandro. 

"It  looks  as  though  they'd  crowd  our  kind  out,"  Saxon 
adjudged. 

"Some  tall  crowdin',  I  guess,"  Billy  grumbled.  "It 
looks  like  the  free-born  American  ain't  got  no  room  left 
in  his  own  land." 

"Then  it's  his  own  fault,"  Saxon  said,  with  vague  as- 
perity, resenting  conditions  she  was  just  beginning  to 
grasp. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  about  that.  I  reckon  the  American 
could  do  what  the  Porchugeeze  do  if  he  wanted  to.  Only 
I  he  don't  want  to,  thank  God.  He  ain't  much  given  to 
livin'  like  a  pig  off  en  leavin's. " 

"Not  in  the  country,  maybe,"  Saxon  controverted. 
"But  I've  seen  an  awful  lot  of  Americans  living  like  pigs 
in  the  cities." 

Billy  grunted  unwilling  assent.  "I  guess  they  quit  the 
farms  an'  go  to  the  city  Jor  something  better,  an'  get  it 
in  the  neck." 

"Look  at  all  the  children!"  Saxon  cried.  "School's 
letting  out.  And  nearly  all  are  Portuguese,  Billy,  not 
Porchugeeze.  Mercedes  taught  me  the  right  way." 


304  THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

"They  never  wore  glad  rags  like  them  in  the  old  coun< 
try,"  Billy  sneered.  "They  had  to  come  over  here  to  get 
decent  clothes  and  decent  grub.  They're  as  fat  as  butter- 
balls." 

Saxon  nodded  affirmation,  and  a  great  light  seemed 
suddenly  to  kindle  in  her  understanding. 

"That's  the  very  point,  Billy.  They're  doing  it — doing 
it  farming,  too.  Strikes  don't  bother  them." 

"You  don't  call  that  dinky  gardenin'  farming,"  he  ob- 
jected, pointing  to  a  piece  of  land  barely  the  size  of  an 
acre,  which  they  were  passing. 

"Oh,  your  ideas  are  still  big,"  she  laughed.  "You're 
like  Uncle  Will,  who  owned  thousands  of  acres  and  wanted 
to  own  a  million,  and  who  wound  up  as  night  watchman. 
That's  what  was  the  trouble  with  all  us  Americans. 
Everything  large  scale.  Anything  less  than  one  hundred 
and  sixty  acres  was  small  scale." 

"Just  the  same,"  Billy  held  stubbornly,  "large  scale's 
a  whole  lot  better 'n  small  scale  like  all  these  dinky  gar- 
dens." 

Saxon  sighed. 

"I  don't  know  which  is  the  dinkier,"  she  observed 

finally,  " owning  a  few  little  acres  and  the  team  you're 

driving,  or  not  owning  any  acres  and  driving  a  team 
somebody  else  owns  for  wages." 

Billy  winced. 

"Go  on,  Robinson  Crusoe,"  he  growled  good  naturedly. 
"Rub  it  in  good  an'  plenty.  An'  the  worst  of  it  is  it's 
correct.  A  hell  of  a  free-born  American  I've  been,  a- 
drivin'  other  folkses'  teams  for  a  livin',  a-strikin'  and 
a-sluggin'  scabs,  an'  not  bein'  able  to  keep  up  with  the 
installments  for  a  few  sticks  of  furniture.  Just  the  same 
I  was  sorry  for  one  thing.  I  hated  worse 'n  Sam  Hill  to 
see  that  Morris  chair  go  back — you  liked  it  so.  We  did 
a  lot  of  honeymoonin'  in  that  chair." 

They  were  well  out  of  San  Leandro,  walking  through 
a  region  of  tiny  holdings — ' '  f armlets, ' '  Billy  called  them ; 
and  Saxon  got  out  her  ukulele  to  cheer  him  with  a  song. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     30$ 

First,  it  was  "Treat  my  daughter  kind-i-ly,"  and  then 
she  swung  into  old-fashioned  darky  camp-meeting  hymns, 
beginning  with: 

"Oh!  de  Judgmen'  Day  am  rollin'  roun% 

Eollin',  yes,  a-rollin', 
I  hear  the  trumpets'  awful  soun', 
Eollin',  yes,  a-rollin'." 

A  big  touring  car,  dashing  past,  threw  a  dusty  pause 
in  her  singing,  and  Saxon  delivered  herself  of  her  latest 
wisdom. 

"Now,  Billy,  remember  we're  not  going  to  take  up  with 
the  first  piece  of  land  we  see.  "We've  got  to  go  into  this 
with  our  eyes  open " 

"An'  they  ain't  open  yet,"  he  agreed. 

"And  we've  got  to  get  them  open.  *  'Tis  them  that 
looks  that  finds. '  There 's  lots  of  time  to  learn  things.  We 
don't  care  if  it  takes  months  and  months.  We're  foot- 
loose. A  good  start  is  better  than  a  dozen  bad  ones.  We  Ve 
got  to  talk  and  find  out.  We'll  talk  with  everybody  we 
meet.  Ask  questions.  Ask  everybody.  It's  the  only  way 
to  find  out." 

"I  ain't  much  of  a  hand  at  askin'  questions,"  Billy  de- 
murred. 

'Then  I'll  ask,"  she  cried.  "We've  got  to  win  out  at 
this  game,  and  the  way  is  to  know.  Look  at  all  these 
Portuguese.  Where  are  all  the  Americans?  They  owned 
the  land  first,  after  the  Mexicans.  What  made  the  Amer- 
icans clear  out?  How  do  the  Portuguese  make  it  go? 
Don't  you  see.  We've  got  to  ask  millions  of  questions." 

She  strummed  a  few  chords,  and  then  her  clear  sweet 
•roice  rang  out  gaily: 

"I's  gwine  back  to  Dixie, 
I's  gwine  back  to  Dixie, 
I 's  gwine  where  de  orange  blossoms  grow, 
For  I  hear  de  chillun  callin', 
I  see  de  sad  tears  fallin' — 
My  heart's  turned  back  to  Dixie, 
An'  I  mus'  go." 


306  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

She  broke  off  to  exclaim:  "Oh!  "What  a  lovely  place! 
See  that  arbor — just  covered  with  grapes!" 

Again  and  again  she  was  attracted  by  the  small  places 
they  passed.  Now  it  was:  "Look  at  the  flowers!"  or: 
"My!  those  vegetables!"  or:  "See!  They've  got  a  cow!" 

Men — Americans — driving  along  in  buggies  or  run- 
abouts looked  at  Saxon  and  Billy  curiously.  This  Saxon 
could  brook  far  easier  than  could  Billy,  who  would  mut- 
ter and  grumble  deep  in  his  throat. 

Beside  the  road  they  came  upon  a  lineman  eating  his 
lunch. 

"Stop  and  talk,"  Saxon  whispered. 

"Aw,  what's  the  good?  He's  a  lineman.  What'd  he 
know  about  farmin'?" 

"You  never  can  tell.  He's  our  kind.  Go  ahead,  Billy. 
You  just  speak  to  him.  He  isn't  working  now  anyway, 
and  he'll  be  more  likely  to  talk.  See  that  tree  in  there, 
just  inside  the  gate,  and  the  way  the  branches  are  grown 
together.  It's  a  curiosity.  Ask  him  about  it.  That's  a 
good  way  to  get  started." 

Billy  stopped,  when  they  were   alongside. 

"How  do  you  do,"  he  said  gruffly. 

The  lineman,  a  young  fellow,  paused  in  the  cracking 
of  a  hard-boiled  egg  to  stare  up  at  the  couple. 

"How  do  you  do,"  he  said. 

Billy  swung  his  pack  from  his  shoulders  to  the  ground, 
and  Saxon  rested  her  telescope  basket. 

"Peddlin'?"  the  young  man  asked,  too  discreet  to  put 
his  question  directly  to  Saxon,  yet  dividing  it  between1 
her  and  Billy,  and  cocking  his  eye  at  the  covered  basket. 

"No,"  she  spoke  up  quickly.  "We're  looking  for  land. 
Do  you  know  of  any  around  here?" 

Again  he  desisted  from  the  egg,  studying  them  with 
sharp  eyes  as  if  to  fathom  their  financial  status. 

"Do  you  know  what  land  sells  for  around  here?"  he 
asked. 

"No,"  Saxon  answered.     "Do  you?"' 

"I  guess  I  ought  to.     I  was  born  here.    And  land  like 


THE  GALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     307 

this  all  around  you  runs  at  from  two  to  three  hundred  to 
four  an'  five  hundred  dollars  an  acre." 

"Whew!"  Billy  whistled.  "I  guess  we  don't  want 
none  of  it." 

' '  But  what  makes  it  that  high  ?  Town  lots  ? ' '  Saxon 

wanted  to  know. 

"Nope.     The  Porchugeeze  make  it  that  high,  I  guess." 

"I  thought  it  was  pretty  good  land  that  fetched  a  hun- 
dred an  acre,"  Billy  said. 

"Oh,  them  times  is  past.  They  used  to  give  away  land 
once,  an'  if  you  was  good,  throw  in  all  the  cattle  runnin' 
on  it." 

' '  How  about  government  land  around  here  ? ' '  was  Billy 's 
next  query. 

"Ain't  none,  an'  never  was.  This  was  old  Mexican 
grants.  My  grandfather  bought  sixteen  hundred  of  the 
best  acres  around  here  for  fifteen  hundred  dollars — five 
hundred  down  an'  the  balance  in  five  years  without  inter- 
est.  But  that  was  in  the  early  days.  He  come  West  in 
'48,  try  in'  to  find  a  country  without  chills  an'  fever." 

"He  found  it  all  right,"  said  Billy. 

"You  bet  he  did.  An'  if  him.  an'  father 'd  held  onto  the 
land  it'd  ben  better  than  a  gold  mine,  an'  I  wouldn't  be 
workin'  for  a  livin'.  What's  your  business?" 

"Teamster." 

"Ben  in  the  strike  in  Oakland?" 

"Sure  thing.     I've  teamed  there  most  of  my  life." 

Here  the  two  men  wandered  off  into  a  discussion  of 
union  affairs  and  the  strike  situation;  but  Saxon  refused 
to  be  balked,  and  brought  back  the  talk  to  the  land. 

"How  was  it  the  Portuguese  ran  up  the  price  of  land?" 
she  asked. 

The  young-  fellow  broke  away  from  union  matters  with 
an  effort,  and  for  a  moment  regarded  her  with  lack  luster 
eyes,  until  the  question  sank  into  his  consciousness. 

"Because  they  worked  the  land  overtime.  Because  they 
worked  mornin',  noon,  an'  night,  all  hands,  women  an' 
kids.  Because  they  could  get  more  out  of  twenty  acres 


308  THE   Y ALLEY   OF    TEE   MOON 

than  we  could  out  of  a  hundred  an'  sixty.  Look  at  eld 
Silva — Antonio  Silva.  I've  known  him  ever  since  I  was 
a  shaver.  He  didn't  have  the  price  of  a  square  meal  when 
he  hit  this  section  and  begun  leasin'  land  from  my  folks. 
Look  at  him  now — worth  two  hundred  an'  fifty  thousan' 
cold,  an'  I  bet  he's  got  credit  for  a  million,  an'  there's 
no  tellin'  what  the  rest  of  his  family  owns." 

' '  And  he  made  all  that  out  of  your  folks '  land  ? ' '  Saxon 
demanded. 

The  young  man  nodded  his  head  with  evident  reluctance. 

"Then  why  didn't  your  folks  do  it?"  she  pursued. 

The  lineman  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Search  me,"  he  said. 

"But  the  money  was  in  the  land,"  she  persisted. 

"Blamed  if  it  was,"  came  the  retort,  tinged  slightly 
with  color.  "We  never  saw  it  stickin'  out  so  as  you  could 
notice  it.  The  money  was  in  the  heads  of  the  Porchu/ 
geeze,  I  guess.  They  knew  a  few  more'n  we  did,  that's 
all" 

!5axon  showed  such  dissatisfaction  with  his  explanation 
that  he  was  stung  to  action.  He  got  up  wrathfully. 

"Come  on,  an'  I'll  show  you,"  he  said.  "I'll  show 
you  why  I'm  workin'  for  wages  when  I  might  a-ben  a 
millionaire  if  my  folks  hadn't  ben  mutts.  That's  what 
we  old  Americans  are,  Mutts,  with  a  capital  M." 

He  led  them  inside  the  gate,  to  the  fruit  tree  that  had 
first  attracted  Saxon's  attention.  From  the  main  crotch 
diverged  the  four  main  branches  of  the  tree.  Two  feet 
above  the  crotch  the  branches  were  connected,  each  to 
the  ones  on  both  sides,  by  braces  of  living  wood. 

"You  think  it  gro wed  that  way.  eh?  Well,  it  did.  But 
it  was  old  Silva  that  made  it  just  the  same — caught  two 
sprouts,  when  the  tree  was  young,  an'  twisted  'em  together. 
Pretty  slick,  eh?  You  bet.  That  tree '11  never  blow  down. 
It's  a  natural,  springy  brace,  an'  beats  iron  braces  stiff. 
Look  along  all  the  rows.  Every  tree's  that  way.  See? 
An'  that's  just  one  trick  of  the  Porohugeeze.  They  got 
a  million  like  it. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     3C9 

"Figure  it  out  for  yourself.  They  don't  need  props 
when  the  crop's  heavy.  Why,  when  we  had  a  heavy  crop, 
we  used  to  use  five  props  to  a  tree.  Now  take  ten  acres 
of  trees.  That'd  be  some  several  thousan'  props.  "Which 
cost  money,  an'  labor  to  put  in  an'  take  out  every  year. 
These  here  natural  braces  don't  have  to  have  a  thing 
done.  They're  Johnny-on-the-spot  all  the  time.  Why, 
the  Porchugeeze  has  got  us  skinned  a  mile.  Come  on, 
I'll  show  you." 

Billy,  with  city  notions  of  trespass,  betrayed  pertur- 
bation at  the  freedom  they  were  making  of  the  little  farm. 

"Oh,  it's  all  right,  as  long  as  you  don't  step  on  nothin'," 
the  lineman  reassured  him.  "Besides,  my  grandfather 
used  to  own  this.  They  know  me.  Forty  years  ago  old 
Silva  come  from  the  Azores.  Went  sheep-herdin'  in  the 
mountains  for  a  couple  of  years,  then  blew  in  to  San 
Leandro.  These  five  acres  was  the  first  land  he  leased. 
That  wae  the  beginnin'.  Then  he  began  leasin'  by  the 
hundreds  of  acres,  an'  by  the  hundred-an '-sixties.  An' 
his  sisters  an'  his  uncles  an'  his  aunts  begun  pourin'  in 
from  the  Azores — they're  all  related  there,  you  know;  an' 
pretty  soon  San  Leandro  was  a  regular  Porchugeeze  set- 
tlement. 

' '  An '  old  Silva  wound  up  by  buyin '  these  five  acres  from 
grandfather.  Pretty  soon — an'  father  by  that  time  was 
in  the  hole  to  the  neck — he  was  buyin'  father's  land  by 
the  hundred-an '-sixties.  An'  all  the  rest  of  his  relations 
was  doin'  the  same  thing.  Father  was  always  gettin'  rich 
quick,  an'  he  wound  up  by  dyin'  in  debt.  But  old  Silva 
never  overlooked  a  bet,  no  matter  how  dinky.  An'  all  the 
rest  are  just  like  him.  You  see  outside  the  fence  there, 
clear  to  the  wheel-tracks  in  the  road — horse-beans.  "We'd 
a-scorned  to  do  a  picayune  thing  like  that.  Not  Silva. 
Why  he's  got  a  town  house  in  San  Leandro  now.  An' 
he  rides  around  in  a  four-thousan '-dollar  tourin'  car.  An' 
just  the  same  his  front  door  yard  grows  onions  clear  to 
the  sidewalk.  He  clears  three  hundred  a  year  on  that 
patch  alone.  I  know  ten  acres  of  land  he  bought  last 


310  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON 

year — a  thousan'  an  acre  they  asked 'm,  an'  he  never  bat- 
ted an  eye.  He  knew  it  was  worth  it,  that's  all.  He  knew 
he  could  make  it  pay.  Back  in  the  hills,  there,  he's  got  a 
ranch  of  five  hundred  an'  eighty  acres,  bought  it  dirt 
cheap,  too;  an'  I  want  to  tell  you  I  could  travel  around 
in  a  different  tourin'  car  every  day  in  the  week  just  outa 
the  profits  he  makes  on  that  ranch  from  the  horses  all 
the  way  from  heavy  draughts  to  fancy  steppers. 

"But  how ?— how ?— how  did  he  get  it  all?"  Saxon 
clamored. 

"By  bein'  wise  to  farmin'.  Why,  the  whole  blame  fam- 
ily works.  They  ain't  ashamed  to  roll  up  their  sleeves 
an'  dig — sons  an'  daughters  an'  daughter-in-laws,  old  man, 
old  woman,  an'  the  babies.  They  have  a  sayin'  that  a  kid 
four  years  old  that  can't  pasture  one  cow  on  the  county 
road  an'  keep  it  fat  ain't  worth  his  salt.  Why,  the  Silvas, 
the  whole  tribe  of  'em,  works  a  hundred  acres  in  peas, 
eighty  in  tomatoes,  thirty  in  asparagus,  ten  in  pie-plant, 
forty  in  cucumbers,  an' — oh,  stacks  of  other  things." 

"But  how  do  they  do  it?"  Saxon  continued  to  demand. 
"We've  never  been  ashamed  to  work.  We've  worked 
hard  all  our  lives.  I  can  out-work  any  Portuguese  woman 
ever  born.  And  I  Ve  done  it,  too,  in  the  jute  mills.  There 
were  lots  of  Portuguese  girls  working  at  the  looms  all 
around  me,  and  I  could  out-weave  them,  every  day,  and 
I  did,  too.  It  isn't  a  case  of  work.  What  is  it?" 

The  lineman  looked  at  her  in  a  troubled  way. 

"Many's  the  time  I've  asked  myself  that  same  ques- 
tion. 'We're  better 'n  these  cheap  emigrants,'  I'd  say  to 
myself.  'We  was  here  first,  an'  owned  the  land.  I  can 
lick  any  Dago  that  ever  hatched  in  the  Azores.  I  got 
a  better  education.  Then  how  in  thunder  do  they  put  it 
all  over  us,  get  our  land,  an'  start  accounts  in  the  banks?' 
An'  the  only  answer  I  know  is  that  we  ain't  got  the 
sabe.  We  don't  use  our  head-pieces  right.  Something's 
wrong  with  us.  Anyway,  we  wasn't  wised  up  to  farming. 
We  played  at  it.  Show  you?  That's  what  I  brung  you 
In  for — the  way  old  Silva  an'  all  his  tribe  farms.  Look 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     31l 

at  this  place.  Some  cousin  of  his,  just  out  from  the  Azores, 
is  makin'  a  start  on  it,  an'  payin'  good  rent  to  Silva. 
Pretty  soon  he'll  be  up  to  snuff  an'  buyin'  land  for  himself 
from  some  perishin'  American  farmer. 

"Look  at  that — though  you  ought  to  see  it  in  summer. 
Not  an  inch  wasted.  Where  we  got  one  thin  crop,  they 
get  four  fat  crops.  An'  look  at  the  way  they  crowd  it — 
currants  between  the  tree  rows,  beans  between  the  cur- 
rant rows,  a  row  of  beans  close  on  each  side  of  the  trees, 
an'  rows  of  beans  along  the  ends  of  the  tree  rows.  "Why, 
Silva  wouldn't  sell  these  five  acres  for  five  hundred  an 
acre  cash  down.  He  gave  grandfather  fifty  an  acre  for 
it  on  long  time,  an'  here  am  I,  workin'  for  the  telephone 
company  an'  puttin'  in  a  telephone  for  old  Silva 's  cousin 
from  the  Azores  that  can't  speak  American  yet. 

"Horse-beans  along  the  road — say,  when  Silva  swung 
that  trick  he  made  more  outa  fattenin'  hogs  with  'em 
than  grandfather  made  with  all  his  farmin'.  Grandfather 
stuck  up  his  nose  at  horse-beans.  He  died  with  it  stuck 
up,  an'  with  more  mortgages  on  the  land  he  had  left  than 

you  could  shake  a  stick  at.  Plantin'  tomatoes  wrapped 

up  in  wrappin'  paper — ever  heard  of  that?  Father 
snorted  when  he  first  seen  the  Porchugeeze  doin'  it.  An' 
he  went  on  snortin'.  Just  the  same  they  got  bumper 
crops,  an '  father 's  house-patch  of  tomatoes  was  eaten  fey  the 
black  beetles.  We  ain't  got  the  sabe,  or  the  knack,  or  some- 
thing or  other.  Just  look  at  this  piece  of  ground — four 
crops  a  year,  an'  every  inch  of  soil  workin'  over  time. 
Why,  back  in  town  there,  there's  single  acres  that  earns 
more  than  fifty  of  ours  in  the  old  days.  The  Porchugeez* 
is  natural-born  farmers,  that's  all,  an'  we  don't  kno\? 
nothin'  about  farmin'  an'  never  did." 

Saxon  talked  with  the  lineman,  following  him  about, 
till  one  o'clock,  when  he  looked  at  his  watch,  said  good 
bye,  and  returned  to  his  task  of  putting  in  a  telephone 
for  the  latest  immigrant  from  the  Azores. 

When  in  town,  Saxon  carried  her  oilcloth-wrapped  tel- 
escope in  her  hand;  but  it  was  so  arranged  with  loops, 


312  THE    VALLEY    0*    THE    MOON 

that,  once  on  the  road,  she  could  thrust  her  arms  through 
the  loops  and  carry  it  on  her  back.  When  she  did  this, 
the  tiny  ukulele  case  was  shifted  so  that  it  hung  under 
her  left  arm. 

A  mile  on  from  the  lineman,  they  stopped  where  a  small 
creek,  fringed  with  brnsh,  crossed  the  county  road.  Billy 
was  for  the  cold  lunch,  which  was  the  last  meal  Saxon 
had  prepared  in  the  Pine  street  cottage;  but  she  was  de- 
termined upon  building  a  fire  and  boiling  coffee.  Not 
that  she  desired  it  for  herself,  but  that  she  was  impressed 
with  the  idea  that  everything  at  the  starting  of  their 
strange  wandering  must  be  as  comfortable  as  possible  for 
Billy's  sake.  Bent  on  inspiring  him  with  enthusiasm 
equal  to  her  own,  she  declined  to  dampen  what  sparks 
"he  had  caugtit  by  anything  so  uncheerful  as  a  cold 
meal. 

"Now  one  thing  we  want  to  get  out  of  our  heads  right 
at  the  start,  Billy,  is  that  we're  in  a  hurry.  We're  not  in 
a  hurry,  and  we  don't  care  whether  school  keeps  or  not. 
We're  out  to  have  a  good  time,  a  regular  adventure  like 

you  read  about  in  books.  My!  I  wish  that  boy  that 

took  me  fishing  to  Goat  Island  could  see  me  now.  Oak- 
land was  just  a  place  to  start  from,  he  said.  And,  well, 
we've  started,  haven't  we?  And  right  hare's  where  we 
stop  and  boil  coffee.  You  get  the  fire  going,  Billy,  and  I'll 
get  the  water  and  the  things  ready  to  spread  out.*' 

' '  Say, ' '  Billy  remarked,  while  they  waited  for  the  water 
to  boil,  " d'ye  know  what  this  reminds  me  of?" 

Saxon  was  certain  she  did  know,  but  she  shook  her 
iiead.  She  wanted  to  hear  him  say  it. 

"Why,  the  second  Sunday  I  knew  you,  when  we  drove 
out  to  Moraga  Valley  behind  Prince  and  King.  You 
spread  the  lunch  that  day." 

"Only  it  was  a  more  scrumptious  lunch,"  she  added, 
with  a  happy  smile. 

"But  I  wonder  why  we  didn't  have  coffee  that  day,"  he 
Went  on. 

"Perhaps  it  would  have  ben  too  much  like  housekeep- 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      313 

ing,"  she  laughed;  "kind  of  what  Mary  would  call  in- 
delicate  " 

"Or  raw,"  Billy  interpolated.  "She  was  always  spring- 
in'  that  word." 

"And  yet  look  what  became  of  her." 

"That's  the  way  with  all  of  them,"  Billy  growled  som- 
berly. "I've  always  noticed  it's  the  fastidious,  la-de-da 
ones  that  turn  out  the  rottenest.  They  're  like  some  horsea 
I  know,  a-shyin'  at  the  things  they're  the  least  afraid  of." 

Saxon  was  silent,  oppressed  by  a  sadness,  vague  and 
remote,  which  the  mention  of  Bert's  widow  had  served 
to  bring  on. 

"I  know  something  else  that  happened  that  day  which 
you'd  never  guess,"  Billy  reminisced.  "I  bet  you 
couldn't." 

"I  wonder,"  Saxon  murmured,  and  guessed  it  with 
her  eyes. 

Billy's  eyes  answered,  and  quite  spontaneously  he 
reached  over,  caught  her  hand,  and  pressed  it  caressingly 
to  his  cheek. 

"It's  little,  but  oh  my,"  he  said,  addressing  the  impris- 
oned hand.  Then  he  gazed  at  Saxon,  and  she  warmed 
with  his  words.  "We're  beginnin'  courtin'  all  over  again, 
ain't  we?" 

Both  ate  heartily,  and  Billy  was  guilty  of  three  cups 
of  coffee. 

"Say,  this  country  air  gives  some  appetite,"  he  mum 
bled,  as  he  sank  his  teeth  into  his  fifth  bread-and-meat 
sandwich.  "I  could  eat  a  horse,  an'  drown  his  head  off 
in  coffee  afterward." 

Saxon's  mind  had  reverted  to  all  the  young  lineman  had 
told  her,  and  she  completed  a  sort  of  general  resume  of  the 
information. 

"My!"  she  exclaimed,  "but  we've  learned  a  lot!" 

"An'  we've  sure  learned  one  thing,"  Billy  said.  "An* 
that  is  that  this  is  no  place  for  us,  with  land  a  thousan' 
an  acre  an'  only  twenty  dollars  in  our  pockets." 

"Oh,  we're  not  going  to  stop  here,"  she  hastened  to  sav. 


314  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

"But  just  the  same  it's  the  Portuguese  that  gave  it  its 
price,  and  they  make  things  go  on  it — send  their  chil- 
dren to  school  .  .  .  and  have  them;  and,  as  you  said 
yourself,  they're  as  fat  as  butterballs. " 

"An*  I  take  my  hat  off  to  them,"  Billy  responded. 
"But  all  the  same,  I'd  sooner  have  forty  acres  at  a  hun- 
dred an  acre  than  four  at  a  thousan'  an  acre.  Somehow, 
you  know,  I'd  be  scared  stiff  on  four  acres — scared  of 
fallin'  off,  you  know." 

She  was  in  full  sympathy  with  him.  In  her  heart  of 
hearts  the  forty  acres  tugged  much  the  harder.  In  her 
way,  allowing  for  the  difference  of  a  generation,  her  de- 
sire for  spaciousness  was  as  strong  as  her  Uncle  Will's. 

"Well,  we're  not  going  to  stop  here,"  she  assured  Billy. 
"We're  going  in,  not  for  forty  acres,  but  for  a  hundred 
and  sixty  acres  free  from  the  government." 

"An'  I  guess  the  government  owes  it  to  us  for  what 
our  fathers  an'  mothers  done.  I  tell  you,  Saxon,  when 
a  woman  walks  across  the  plains  like  your  mother  done, 
an'  a  man  an'  wife  gets  massacred  by  the  Indians  like 
my  grandfather  an'  mother  done,  the  government  does 
owe  them  something." 

"Well,  it's  up  to  us  to  collect." 

"An*  well  collect  all  right,  all  right,  somewhere  down 
in  them  redwood  mountains  south  of  Monter^." 


CHAPTER   Li 

IT  was  a  good  afternoon's  tramp  to  Niles,  passing 
through  the  town  of  Haywards ;  yet  Saxon  and  Billy 
found  time  to  diverge  from  the  main  county  road  and 
take  the  parallel  roads  through  acres  of  intense  cultiva- 
tion where  the  land  was  farmed  to  the  wheel-tracks.  Saxon 
looked  with  amazement  at  these  small,  brown-skinned  im- 
migrants who  came  to  the  soil  with  nothing  and  yet  made 
the  soil  pay  for  itself  to  the  tune  of  two  hundred,  of 
five  hundred,  and  of  a  thousand  dollars  an  acre. 

On  every  hand  was  activity.  Women  and  children  wer& 
in  the  fields  as  well  as  men.  The  land  was  turned  end- 
lessly over  and  over.  They  seemed  never  to  let  it  rest. 
And  it  rewarded  them.  It  must  reward  them,  or  their 
children  would  not  be  able  to  go  to  school,  nor  would 
so  many  of  them  be  able  to  drive  by  in  rattletrap,  second- 
hand buggies  or  in  stout  light  wagons. 

"Look  at  their  faces,"  Saxon  said.  "They  are  happy 
and  contented.  They  haven't  faces  like  the  people  in 
our  neighborhood  after  the  strikes  began." 

"Oh,  sure,  they  got  a  good  thing,"  Billy  agreed.  "You 
can  see  it  stickin'  out  all  over  them.  But  they  needn't 
get  chesty  with  me,  I  can  tell  you  that  much — just  because 
they've  jiggerrooed  us  out  of  our  land  an'  everything." 

"But  they're  not  showing  any  signs  of  chestiness," 
Saxon  demurred. 

"No,  they're  not,  come  to  think  of  it.  All  the  same, 
they  ain't  so  wise.  I  bet  I  could  tell  'em  a  few  about 
horses. ' ' 

It  was  sunset  when  they  entered  the  little  town  of  Niles. 
Billy,  who  had  been  silent  for  the  last  half  mile,  hesi- 
tantly ventured  a  suggestion 

a** 


316  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

"Say  ...  I  could  put  up  for  a  room  in  the  hotel 
just  as  well  as  not.  What  d'ye  think?" 

But  Saxon  shook  her  head  emphatically. 

"How  long  do  you  think  our  twenty  dollars  will  last 
at  that  rate?  Besides,  the  only  way  to  begin  is  to  begin 
ffl  the  beginning.  We  didn't  plan  sleeping  in  hotels." 

"All  right,"  he  gave  in.  "I'm  game.  I  was  just 
thinkin*  about  you." 

"Then  you'd  better  think  I'm  game,  too,"  she  flashed 
forgivingly.  "And  now  we'll  have  to  see  about  getting 
things  for  supper." 

They  bought  a  round  steak,  potatoes,  onions,  and  a  dozen 
eating  apples,  then  went  out  from  the  town  to  the  fringe 
of  trees  and  brush  that  advertised  a  creek.  Beside  the 
trees,  on  a  sand  bank,  they  pitched  camp.  Plenty  of  dry 
wood  lay  about,  and  Billy  whistled  genially  while  he 
gathered  and  chopped.  Saxon,  keen  to  follow  his  every 
mood,  was  cheered  by  the  atrocious  discord  on  his  lips. 
She  smiled  to  herself  as  she  spread  the  blankets,  with 
the  tarpaulin  underneath,  for  a  table,  having  first  removed 
all  twigs  from  the  sand.  She  had  much  to  learn  in  the 
matter  of  cooking  over  a  camp-fire,  and  made  fair  prog- 
ress, discovering,  first  of  all,  that  control  of  the  fire 
meant  far  more  than  the  size  of  it.  When  the  coffee  was 
boiled,  she  settled  the  grounds  with  a  part-cup  of  cold 
water  and  placed  the  pot  on  the  edge  of  the  coals  where 
it  would  keep  hot  and  yet  not  boil.  She  fried  potato 
dollars  and  onions  in  the  same  pan,  but  separately,  and 
set  them  on  top  of  the  coffee  pot  in  the  tin  plate  she 
was  to  eat  from,  covering  it  with  Billy's  inverted  plate. 
On  the  dry  hot  pan,  in  the  way  that  delighted  Billy,  she 
fried  the  steak.  This  completed,  and  while  Billy  poured 
the  coffee,  she  served  the  steak,  putting  the  dollars  and 
onions  back  into  the  frying  pan  for  a  moment  to  make 
them  piping  hot  again. 

"What  more  d'ye  want  than  this?"  Billy  challenged 
with  deep-toned  satisfaction,  in  the  pause  after  his  final 
eup  of  coffee,  while  he  rolled  a  cigarette.  He  lay  on 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      317 

his  side,  full  length,  resting  on  his  elbow.  The  fire  was 
burning  brightly,  and  Saxon's  color  was  heightened  by 
the  flickering  flames.  "Now  our  folks,  when  they  was 
on  the  move,  had  to  be  afraid  for  Indians,  and  wild 
animals  and  all  sorts  of  things;  an'  here  we  are,  as  safe 
as  bugs  in  a  rug.  Take  this  sand.  What  better  bed 
could  you  ask?  Soft  as  feathers.  Say — you  look  good 
to  me,  heap  little  squaw.  I  bet  you  don't  look  an  inch 
over  sixteen  right  now,  Mrs.  Babe-in-the-Woods. " 

"Don't  I?"  she  glowed,  with  a  flirt  of  the  head  side- 
ward and  a  white  flash  of  teeth.  "If  you  weren't  smok- 
ing a  cigarette  I'd  ask  you  if  your  mother  knew  you're 
out,  Mr.  Babe-in-the-Sandbank. " 

"Say,"  he  began,  with  transparently  feigned  serious 
ness.  "I  want  to  ask  you  something,  if  you  don't  mind. 
Now,  of  course,  I  don't  want  to  hurt  your  feelin's  or 
nothin',  but  just  the  same  there's  something  important 
I'd  like  to  know." 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  she  inquired,  after  a  fruitless  wait. 

"Well,  it's  just  this,  Saxon.  I  like  you  like  anything 
an '  all  that,  but  here 's  night  come  on,  an '  we  're  a  thousand 
miles  from  anywhere,  and — well,  what  I  wanta  know  is: 
are  we  really  an'  truly  married,  you  an'  me?" 

"Really  and  truly,"  she  assured  him.     "Why?" 

"Oh,  nothing;  but  I'd  kind  a-forgotten,  an'  I  was  get- 
tin'  embarrassed,  you  know,  because  if  we  wasn't,  seein' 
the  way  I  was  brought  up,  this'd  be  no  place " 

"That  will  do  you,"  she  said  severely.  "And  this  is 
just  the  time  and  place  for  you  to  get  in  the  firewood 
for  morning  while  I  wash  up  the  dishes  and  put  the 
kitchen  in  order." 

He  started  to  obey,  but  paused  to  throw  his  arm  about 
her  and  draw  her  close.  Neither  spoke,  but  when  he  went 
his  way  Saxon 's  breast  was  fluttering  and  a  song  of  thanks- 
giving breathed  on  her  lips. 

The  night  had  come  on,  dim  with  the  light  of  faint 
stars.  But  these  had  disappeared  behind  clouds  that  seemed 
to  have  arisen  from  nowhere.  It  was  the  beginning  of  Cali- 


318  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

fornia  Indian  summer.  The  air  was  warm,  with  just  the 
first  hint  of  evening  chill,  and  there  was  no  wind. 

"I've  a  feeling  as  if  we've  just  started  to  live,"  Saxon 
said,  when  Billy,  his  firewood  collected,  joined  her  on  the 
blankets  before  the  fire.  "I've  learned  more  to-day  than 
ten  years  in  Oakland."  She  drew  a  long  breath  and 
braced  her  shoulders.  "Farming's  a  bigger  subject  than 
I  thought." 

Billy  said  nothing.  With  steady  eyes  he  was  staring 
into  the  fire,  and  she  knew  he  was  turning  something 
over  in  his  mind. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  when  she  saw  he  had  reached 
a  conclusion,  at  the  same  time  resting  her  hand  on  the 
back  of  his. 

"Just  ben  framin'  up  that  ranch  of  ourn,"  he  an- 
swered.  "It's  all  well  enough,  these  dinky  f armlets. 
They'll  do  for  foreigners.  But  we  Americans  just  gotta 
have  room.  I  want  to  be  able  to  look  at  a  hilltop  an' 
know  it 's  my  land,  and  know  it 's  my  land  down  the  other 
side  an'  up  the  next  hilltop,  an'  know  that  over  beyond 
that,  down  alongside  some  creek,  my  mares  are  most  likely 
grazin',  an'  their  little  colts  grazin'  with  'em  or  kickin* 
up  their  heels.  You  know,  there 's  money  in  raisin '  horses — 
especially  the  big  workhorses  that  run  to  eighteen  hun- 
dred an'  two  thousand  pounds.  They're  payin'  for  'em, 
in  the  cities,  every  day  in  the  year,  seven  an'  eight  hun- 
dred a  pair,  matched  geldings,  four  years  old.  Good 
pasture  an'  plenty  of  it,  in  this  kind  of  a  climate,  is 
,all  they  need,  along  with  some  sort  of  shelter  an'  a  little 
hay  in  long  spells  of  bad  weather.  I  never  thought  of 
it  before,  but  let  me  tell  you  that  this  ranch  proposition 
is  beginnin'  to  look  good  to  me." 

Saxon  was  all  excitement.  Here  was  new  information 
on  the  cherished  subject,  and,  best  of  all,  Billy  was  the 
authority.  Still  better,  he  was  taking  an  interest  him- 
self. 

"There'll  be  room  for  that  and  for  everything  on  a 
quarter  section, ' '  she  encouraged. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     319 

"Sure  thing.  Around  the  house  we'll  have  vegetables 
an'  fruit  and  chickens  an'  everything,  just  like  the  Por- 
chugeeze,  an'  plenty  of  room  beside  to  walk  around  an' 
range  the  horses." 

"But  won't  the  colts  cost  money,  Billy?" 

"Not  much.  The  cobblestones  eat  horses  up  fast.  That's 
where  I'll  get  my  brood  mares,  from  the  ones  knocked 
out  by  the  city.  I  know  that  end  of  it.  They  sell  'em  at 
auction,  an'  they're  good  for  years  an'  years,  only  no 
good  on  the  cobbles  any  more." 

There  ensued  a  long  pause.  In  the  dying  fire  both  were 
busy  visioning  the  farm  to  be. 

"It's  pretty  still,  ain't  it?"  Billy  said,  rousing  him- 
self at  last.  He  gazed  about  him.  "An'  black  as  a  stack 
of  black  cats. ' '  He  shivered,  buttoned  his  coat,  and  tossed 
several  sticks  on  the  fire.  "Just  the  same,  it's  the  best 
kind  of  a  climate  in  the  world.  Many's  the  time,  when 
I  was  a  little  kid,  I've  heard  my  father  brag  about  Cali- 
fornia's bein'  a  blanket  climate.  He  went  East,  once,  an' 
staid  a  summer  an'  a  winter,  an'  got  all  he  wanted. 
Never  again  for  him." 

"My  mother  said  there  never  was  such  a  land  for  cli- 
mate. How  wonderful  it  must  have  seemed  to  them  after 
crossing  the  deserts  and  mountains.  They  called  it  the 
land  of  milk  and  honey.  The  ground  was  so  rich  that 
all  they  needed  to  do  was  scratch  it,  Cady  used  to  say." 

"And  wild  game  everywhere,"  Billy  contributed.  "Mr. 
Roberts,  the  one  that  adopted  my  father,  he  drove  cattle 
from  the  San  Joaquin  to  the  Columbia  river.  He  had 
forty  men  helpin'  him,  an'  all  they  took  along  was  pow- 
der an'  salt.  They  lived  off  the  game  they  shot." 

"The  hills  were  full  of  deer,  and  my  mother  saw  whole 
herds  of  elk  around  Santa  Rosa.  Some  time  we'll  go 
there.  Billy.  I've  always  wanted  to." 

"And  when  my  father  was  a  young  man,  somewhere 
up  north  of  Sacramento,  in  a  creek  called  Cache  Slough, 
the  tules  was  full  of  grizzlies.  He  used  to  go  in  an'  shoot 
'em.  An'  when  they  caught  'em  in  the  open,  he  an* 


320  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

the  Mexicans  used  to  ride  up  an'  rope  them — catch  them 
with  lariats,  you  know.  He  said  a  horse  that  wasn't  afraid 
of  grizzlies  fetched  ten  times  as  much  as  any  other  horse. 
An'  panthers! — all  the  old  folks  called  'em  painters 
an'  catamounts  an'  varmints.  Yes,  we'll  go  to  Santa 
Rosa  some  time.  Maybe  we  won't  like  that  laud  down 
the  coast,  an'  have  to  keep  on  hikin'." 

By  this  time  the  fire  had  died  down,  and  Saxon  had 
finished  brushing  and  braiding  her  hair.  Their  bed-going 
preliminaries  were  simple,  and  in  a  few  minutes  they 
were  side  by  side  under  the  blankets.  Saxon  closed  her 
eyes,  but  could  not  sleep.  On  the  contrary,  she  had  never 
been  more  wide  awake.  She  had  never  slept  out  of  doors 
in  her  life,  and  by  no  exertion  of  will  could  she  overcome 
the  strangeness  of  it.  In  addition,  she  was  stiffened  from 
the  long  trudge,  and  the  sand,  to  her  surprise,  was  any- 
thing but  soft.  An  hour  passed.  She  tried  to  believe  that 
Billy  was  asleep,  but  felt  certain  he  was  not.  The  sharp 
crackle  of  a  dying  ember  startled  her.  She  was  confident 
that  Billy  had  moved  slightly. 

"Billy,"  she  whispered,  "are  you  awake?" 

"Yep,"  came  his  low  answer,  " — an'  thinkin'  this  sand 
is  harder 'n  a  cement  floor.  It's  one  on  me,  all  right. 
But  who'd  a-thought  it?" 

Both  shifted  their  postures  slightly,  but  vain  was  the 
attempt  to  escape  from  the  dull,  aching  contact  of  the 
sand. 

An  abrupt,  metallic,  whirring  noise  of  some  nearby 
cricket  gave  Saxon  another  startle.  She  endured  the  sound 
for  some  minutes,  until  Billy  broke  forth. 

"Say,  that  gets  my  goat  whatever  it  is." 

"Do  you  think  it's  a  rattlesnake?"  she  asked,  main- 
taming  a  calmness  she  did  not  feel. 

"Just  what  I've  been  thinkin'." 

"I  saw  two,  in  the  window  of  Bowman's  Drug  Store. 
An'  you  know,  Billy,  they've  got  a  hollow  fang,  and  when 
they  stick  it  into  you  the  poison  runs  down  the  hollow." 

"Br-r-r-r,"  Billy  shivered,  in  fear  that  was  not  alto- 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     321 

gether  mockery.  "Certain  death,  everybody  says,  unless 
you're  a  Bosco.  Remember  him?" 

"He  eats  'em  alive!  He  eats  'em  alive!  Bosco!  Bos- 
co!" Saxon  responded,  mimicking  the  cry  of  a  side- 
show barker. 

"Just  the  same,  all  Bosco 's  rattlers  had  the  poison- 
sacs  cut  outa  them.  They  must  a-had.  Gee!  It's  funny 
I  can't  get  asleep.  I  wish  that  damned  thing 'd  close  its 
trap.  I  wonder  if  it  is  a  rattlesnake." 

"No;  it  can't  be,"  Saxon  decided.  "All  the  rattle- 
snakes are  killed  off  long  ago." 

"Then  where  did  Bosco  get  his?"  Billy  demanded  with 
unimpeachable  logic.  "An'  why  don't  you  get  to  sleep?" 

"Because  it's  all  new,  I  guess,"  was  her  reply.  "You 
see,  I  never  camped  out  in  my  life." 

"Neither  did  I.  An'  until  now  I  always  thought  it  was 
a  lark."  He  changed  his  position  on  the  maddening 
sand  and  sighed  heavily.  "But  we'll  get  used  to  it  in 
time,  I  guess.  What  other  folks  can  do,  we  can,  an'  a 
mighty  lot  of  'em  has  camped  out.  It's  all  right.  Here 
we  are,  free  an'  independent,  no  rent  to  pay,  our  own 
bosses " 

He  stopped  abruptly.  From  somewhere  in  the  brush 
came  an  intermittent  rustling.  "When  they  tried  to  lo- 
cate it,  it  mysteriously  ceased,  and  when  the  first  hint 
of  drowsiness  stole  upon  them  the  rustling  as  mysteriously 
recommenced. 

"It  sounds  like  something  creeping  up  on  us,"  Saxon 
suggested,  snuggling  closer  to  Billy. 

"Well,  it  ain't  a  wild  Indian,  at  all  events,"  was  the* 
best  he  could  offer  in  the  way  of  comfort.  He  yawned 
deliberately.  "Aw,  shucks!  What's  there  to  be  scared 
of?  Think  of  what  all  the  pioneers  went  through." 

Several  minutes  later  his  shoulders  began  to  shake,  and 
Saxon  knew  he  was  giggling. 

"I  was  just  thinkin'  of  a  yarn  my  father  used  to  tell 
about,"  he  explained.  "It  was  about  old  Susan  Kleg- 
horn,  one  of  the  Oregon  pioneer  women.  Wall-Eyed  Susan, 


322  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

they  used  to  call  her;  but  she  could  shoot  to  beat  the 
band.  Once,  on  the  Plains,  the  wagon  train  she  was  in 
was  attacked  by  Indians.  They  got  all  the  wagons  in  a 
circle,  an'  all  hands  an'  the  oxen  inside,  an'  drove  the 
Indians  off,  killin'  a  lot  of  'em.  They  was  too  strong 
that  way,  so  what'd  the  Indians  do,  to  draw  'em  out  into 
the  open,  but  take  two  white  girls,  captured  from  some 
other  train,  an'  begin  to  torture  'em.  They  done  it  just 
out  of  gunshot,  but  so  everybody  could  see.  The  idea  was 
that  the  white  men  couldn't  stand  it,  an'  would  rush  out, 
an'  then  the  Indians 'd  have  'em  where  they  wanted  'em. 

"The  white  men  couldn't  do  a  thing.  If  they  rushed 
out  to  save  the  girls,  they'd  be  finished,  an'  then  the  In- 
dians'd  rush  the  train.  It  meant  death  to  everybody.  But 
what  does  old  Susan  do,  but  get  out  an  old,  long-barreled 
Kentucky  rifle.  She  rams  down  about  three  times  the 
regular  load  of  powder,  takes  aim  at  a  big  buck  that's 
pretty  busy  at  the  torturin',  an'  bangs  away.  It  knocked 
her  clean  over  backward,  an'  her  shoulder  was  lame  all 
the  rest  of  the  way  to  Oregon,  but  she  dropped  the  big 
Indian  deado.  He  never  knew  what  struck  'm. 

"But  that  wasn't  the  yarn  I  wanted  to  tell.  It  seems 
old  Susan  liked  John  Barleycorn.  She'd  souse  herself 
to  the  ears  every  chance  she  got.  An'  her  sons  an'  daugh- 
ters an'  the  old  man  had  to  be  mighty  careful  not  to  leave 
any  around  where  she  could  get  hands  on  it." 

"On  what?"  asked  Saxon. 

"On  John  Barleycorn.  Oh,  you  ain't  on  to  that. 

It's  the  old  fashioned  name  for  whisky.  "Well,  one  day 
all  the  folks  was  goin'  away — that  was  over  somewhere 
at  a  place  called  Bodega,  where  they'd  settled  after  comin* 
down  from  Oregon.  An'  old  Susan  claimed  her  rheu- 
matics was  hurtin'  her  an'  so  she  couldn't  go.  But  the 
family  was  on.  There  was  a  two-gallon  demijohn  of  whis- 
ky in  the  house.  They  said  all  right,  but  before  they 
left  they  sent  one  of  the  grandsons  to  climb  a  big  tree 
in  the  barnyard,  where  he  tied  the  demijohn  sixty  feet 
from  the  ground.  Just  the  same,  when  they  come  home 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     323 

that  night  they  found  Susan  on  the  kitchen  floor  dead  to 
the  world." 

"And  she'd  climbed  the  tree  after  all,"  Saxon  hazarded, 
when  Billy  had  shown  no  inclination  of  going  on. 

"Not  on  your  life,"  he  laughed  jubilantly.  "All  she'd 
done  was  to  put  a  washtub  on  the  ground  square  under 
the  demijohn.  Then  she  got  out  her  old  rifle  an'  shot  the 
demijohn  to  smithereens,  an'  all  she  had  to  do  was  lap 
the  whisky  outa  the  tub." 

Again  Saxon  was  drowsing,  when  the  rustling  sound 
was  heard,  this  time  closer.  To  her  excited  apprehen- 
sion there  was  something  stealthy  about  it,  and  she  imag- 
ined a  beast  of  prey  creeping  upon  them. 

"Billy,"  she  whispered. 

"Yes,  I'm  a-listenin'  to  it,"  came  his  wide  awake 
answer. 

"Mightn't  that  be  a  panther,  or  maybe  ...  a  wild- 
cat?" 

"It  can't  be.  All  the  varmints  was  killed  off  long  ago. 
This  is  peaceable  farmin'  country." 

A  vagrant  breeze  sighed  through  the  trees  and  made 
Saxon  shiver.  The  mysterious  cricket-noise  ceased  with 
suspicious  abruptness.  Then,  from  the  rustling  noise,  en- 
sued a  dull  but  heavy  thump  that  caused  both  Saxon  and 
Billy  to  sit  up  in  the  blankets.  There  were  no  further 
sounds,  and  they  lay  down  again,  though  the  very  silence 
now  seemed  ominous. 

"Huh,"  Billy  muttered  with  relief.  "As  though  I 
don't  know  what  it  was.  It  was  a  rabbit.  I've  heard 
tame  ones  bang  their  hind  feet  down  on  the  floor  that 
way." 

In  vain  Saxon  tried  to  win  sleep.  The  sand  grew  harder 
with  the  passage  of  time.  Her  flesh  and  her  bones  ached 
from  contact  with  it.  And,  though  her  reason  flouted  any 
possibility  of  wild  dangers,  her  fancy  went  on  picturing 
them  with  unflagging  zeal. 

A  new  sound  commenced.  It  was  neither  a  rustling 
nor  a  rattling,  and  it  tokened  some  large  body  passing 


324  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

through  the  brush.  Sometimes  twigs  crackled  and  broke, 
and,  once,  they  heard  bush-branches  press  aside  and  spring 
back  into  place. 

' '  If  that  other  thing  was  a  panther,  this  is  an  elephant, ' ' 
was  Billy's  uncheering  opinion.  "It's  got  weight.  Listen 
to  that.  An'  it's  comin'  nearer." 

There  were  frequent  stoppages,  then  the  sounds  would 
jbegin  again,  always  louder,  always  closer.  Billy  sat  up  in 
the  blankets  once  more,  passing  one  arm  around  Saxon,  who 
had  also  sat  up. 

"I  ain't  slept  a  wink,"  he  complained.  " There  it 

goes  again.  I  wish  I  could  see." 

"It  makes  a  noise  big  enough  for  a  grizzly,"  Saxon 
chattered,  partly  from  nervousness,  partly  from  the  chill 
of  the  night. 

"It  ain't  no  grasshopper,  that's  sure." 

Billy  started  to  leave  the  blankets,  but  Saxon  caught 
his  arm. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"Oh,  I  ain't  scairt  none,"  he  answered.  "But,  honest 
to  God,  this  is  gettin'  on  my  nerves.  If  I  don't  find  what 
that  thing  is,  it'll  give  me  the  willies.  I'm  just  goin' 
to  reconnoiter.  I  won't  go  close." 

So  intensely  dark  was  the  night,  that  the  moment  Billy 
crawled  beyond  the  reach  of  her  hand  he  was  lost  to  sight. 
She  sat  and  waited.  The  sound  had  ceased,  though  she 
could  follow  Billy's  progress  by  the  cracking  of  dry  twigs 
and  limbs.  After  a  few  moments  he  returned  and  crawled 
under  the  blankets. 

"I  scared  it  away,  I  guess.  It's  got  better  ears,  anr 
when  it  heard  me  comin'  it  skinned  out  most  likely.  I 

did  my  dangdest,  too,  not  to  make  a  sound.  O  Lord, 

there  it  goes  again." 

They  sat  up.     Saxon  nudged  Billy. 

"There,"  she  warned,  in  the  faintest  of  whispers.  "I 
can  hear  it  breathing.  It  almost  made  a  snort." 

A  dead  branch  cracked  loudly,  and  so  near  at  hand, 
that  both  of  them  jumped  shamelessly. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     325 

"I  ain't  goin'  to  stand  any  more  of  its  foolin',"  Billy 
.declared  wrathfully.  "It'll  be  on  top  of  us  if  I  don't." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  she  queried  anxiously. 

"Yell  the  top  of  my  head  off.  I'll  get  a  fall  outa  what- 
ever it  is." 

He  drew  a  deep  breath  and  emitted  a  wild  yell. 

The  result  far  exceeded  any  expectation  he  could  have 
entertained,  and  Saxon's  heart  leaped  up  in  sheer  panic. 
On  the  instant  the  darkness  erupted  into  terrible  sound 
and  movement.  There  were  crashings  of  underbrush  and 
lunges  and  pjunges  of  heavy  bodies  in  different  directions, 
Fortunately  for  their  ease  of  mind,  all  these  sounds  re- 
ceded and  died  away. 

"An'  what  d'ye  think  of  that?"  Billy  broke  the  silence, 
"Gee !  all  the  fight  fans  used  to  say  I  was  scairt  of  nothin',, 
Just  the  same  I'm  glad  they  ain't  seem'  me  to-night." 
He  groaned.  "I've  got  all  I  want  of  that  blamed  sand, 
I'm  goin'  to  get  up  and  start  the  fire." 

This  was  easy.  Under  the  ashes  were  live  embers  which 
quickly  ignited  the  wood  he  threw  on.  A  few  stars  were 
peeping  out  in  the  misty  zenith.  He  looked  up  at  them, 
deliberated,  and  started  to  move  away. 

"Where  are  you  going  now?"  Saxon  called. 

"Oh,  I've  got  an  idea,"  he  replied  noncommittally,  and 
walked  boldly  away  beyond  the  circle  of  the  firelight. 

Saxon  sat  with  the  blankets  drawn  closely  under  he*" 
chin,  and  admired  his  courage.  He  had  not  even  taken  the 
hatchet,  and  he  was  going  in  the  direction  in  which  the 
disturbance  had  died  away. 

Ten  minutes  later  he  came  back  chuckling. 

"The  sons-of-guns,  they  got  my  goat  all  right.  I'll  be 

scairt  of  my  own  shadow  next.  What  was  they  ?  Huh  ! 

You  couldn't  guess  in  a  thousand  years.  A  bunch  of  half- 
grown  calves,  an'  they  was  worse  scairt  than  us." 

He  smoked  a  cigarette  by  the  fire,  then  rejoined  Saxon 
under  the  blankets. 

"A  hell  of  a  farmer  I'll  make,"  he  chafed,  "when  a 
lot  of  little  calves  can  scare  the  stuffin'  outa  me.  I  bet 


326  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

your  father  or  mine  wouldn't  a-batted  an  eye.  The  stock 
has  gone  to  seed,  that's  what  it  has." 

"No,  it  hasn't,"  Saxon  defended.  "The  stock  is  all 
right.  "We're  just  as  able  as  our  folks  ever  were,  and 
we're  healthier  on  top  of  it.  We've  been  brought  up 
different,  that's  all.  We've  lived  in  cities  all  our  lives. 
We  know  the  city  sounds  and  things,  but  we  don't  know 
the  country  ones.  Our  training  has  been  unnatural,  that's 
the  whole  thing  in  a  nutshell.  Now  we're  going  in  for 
natural  training.  Give  us  a  little  time,  and  we'll  sleep  as 
sound  out  of  doors  as  ever  your  father  or  mire  did." 

"But  not  on  sand,"   Billy   groaned. 

"We  won't  try.  That's  one  thing,  for  good  and  all, 
we've  learned  the  very  first  time.  And  now  hush  up  and 
go  to  sleep." 

Their  fears  had  vanished,  but  the 'sand,  receiving  now 
their  undivided  attention,  multiplied  its  unyieldingness. 
Billy  dozed  off  first,  and  roosters  were  crowing  somewhere 
in  the  distance  when  Saxon's  eyes  closed.  But  they  could 
not  escape  the  sand,  and  their  sleep  was  fitful. 

At  the  first  gray  of  dawn,  Billy  crawled  out  and  built 
a  roaring  fire.  Saxon  drew  up  to  it  shiveringly.  They 
were  hollow-eyed  and  weary.  Saxon  began  to  laugh.  Billy 
joined  sulkily,  then  brightened  up  as  his  eyes  chanced 
upon  the  coffee  pot,  which  he  immediately  put  on  to  boil. 


CHAPTER   III 

IT  is  forty  miles  from  Oakland  to  San  Jose,  and  Saxon 
*nd  Billy  accomplished  it  in  three  easy  days.  No  more 
obliging  and  angrily  garrulous  linemen  were  encountered, 
and  few  were  the  opportunities  for  conversation  with 
chance  wayfarers.  Numbers  of  tramps,  carrying  rolls  of 
blankets,  were  met,  traveling  both  north  and  south  on 
the  county  road ;  and  from  talks  with  them  Saxon  quickly 
learned  that  they  knew  little  or  nothing  about  farming. 
They  were  mostly  old  men,  feeble  or  besotted,  and  all 
they  knew  was  work — where  jobs  might  be  good,  where 
jobs  had  been  good;  but  the  places  they  mentioned  were 
always  a  long  way  off.  One  thing  she  did  glean  from  them, 
and  that  was  that  the  district  she  and  Billy  were  passing 
through  was  "small-farmer"  country  in  which  labor  was 
rarely  hired,  and  that  when  it  was  it  generally  was  Portu- 
guese. 

The  farmers  themselves  were  unfriendly.  They  drove 
by  Billy  and  Saxon,  often  with  empty  wagons,  but  never 
invited  them  to  ride.  When  chance  offered  and  Saxon 
did  ask  questions,  they  looked  her  over  curiously,  or  sus- 
piciously, and  gave  ambiguous  and  facetious  answers. 

"They  ain't  Americans,  damn  them,"  Billy  fretted. 
"Why,  in  the  old  days  everybody  was  friendly  to  every- 
body." 

But  Saxon  remembered  her  last  talk  with  her  brother. 

"It's  the  spirit  of  the  times,  Billy.  The  spirit  has 
changed  Besides,  these  people  are  too  near.  Wait  til\  we 
get  farther  away  from  the  cities,  then  we'll  find  them 
more  friendly." 

"A  measly  lot  these  ones  are,"  he  sneered. 

"Maybe  they've  a  ris-ht  to  be."  she  laughed..  "For  all 
327 


328  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

you  know,  more  than  one  of  the  scabs  you've  slugged  were 
sons  of  theirs." 

"If  I  could  only  hope  so/'  Billy  said  fervently.  "But 
I  don't  care  if  I  owned  ten  thousand  acres,  any  man  hikin' 
with  his  blankets  might  be  just  as  good  a  man  as  me, 
an'  maybe  better,  for  all  I'd  know.  I'd  give  'm  the  benefit 
of  the  doubt,  anyway." 

Billy  asked  for  work,  at  first,  indiscriminately,  later, 
only  at  the  larger  farms.  The  unvarying  reply  was  that 
there  was  no  work.  A  few  said  there  would  be  plowing 
after  the  first  rains.  Here  and  there,  in  a  small  way,  dry 
plowing  was  going  on.  But  in  the  main  the  farmers  were 
waiting. 

"But  do  you  know  how  to  plow?"  Saxon  asked  Billy. 

"No;  but  I  guess  it  ain't  much  of  a  trick  to  turn.  Be- 
sides, next  man  I  see  plowing  I'm  goin'  to  get  a  lesson 
from. ' ' 

In  the  mid-afternoon  of  the  second  day  his  opportunity 
came.  He  climbed  on  top  of  the  fence  of  a  small  field 
and  watched  an  old  man  plow  round  and  round  it. 

"Aw,  shucks,  just  as  easy  as  easy,"  Billy  commented 
scornfully.  "If  an  old  codger  like  that  can  handle  one 
plow,  I  can  handle  two." 

"Go  on  and  try  it,"  Saxon  urged. 

"What's  the  good?" 

"Cold  feet,"  she  jeered,  but  with  a  smiling  face.  "All 
you  have  to  do  is  ask  him.  All  he  can  do  is  say  no.  And 
what  if  he  does?  You  faced  the  Chicago  Terror  twenty 
rounds  without  flinching." 

"Aw,  but  it's  different,"  he  demurred,  then  dropped 
to  the  ground  inside  the  fence.  "Two  to  one  the  old 
geezer  turns  me  down." 

"No,  he  won't.  Just  tell  him  you  want  to  learn,  and 
ask  him  if  he'll  let  you  drive  around  a  few  times.  Tell 
him  it  won't  cost  him  anything." 

"Huh!  If  he  gets  chesty  I'll  take  his  blamed  plow 
away  from  him." 

From  the  top  of  the  fence,  but  too  far  away  to  hear. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     329 

Saxon  watched  the  colloquy.  After  several  minutes,  the 
lines  were  transferred  to  Billy's  neck,  the  handles  to  his 
hands.  Then  the  team  started,  and  the  old  man,  deliver- 
ing a  rapid  fire  of  instructions,  walked  alongside  of  Billy. 
When  a  few  turns  had  been  made,  the  farmer  crossed  the 
plowed  strip  to  Saxon,  and  joined  her  on  the  rail. 

"He's  plowed  before,  a  little  mite,  ain't  he?" 

Saxon  shook  her  head. 

"Never  in  his  life.    But  he  knows  how  to  drive  horses." 

"He  showed  he  wa'n't  all  greenhorn,  an'  he  learns 
pretty  quick."  Here  the  farmer  chuckled  and  cut  him- 
self a  chew  from  a  plug  of  tobacco.  "I  reckon  he  won't 
tire  me  out  a-settin'  here." 

The  unplowed  area  grew  smaller  and  smaller,  but  Billy 
evinced  no  intention  of  quitting,  and  his  audience  on  the 
fence  was  deep  in  conversation.  Saxon's  questions  flew 
fast  and  furious,  and  she  was  not  long  in  concluding  that 
the  old  man  bore  a  striking  resemblance  to  the  descrip- 
tion the  lineman  had  given  of  his  father. 

Billy  persisted  till  the  field  was  finished,  and  the  old 
man  invited  him  and  Saxon  to  stop  for  the  night.  There 
was  a  disused  outbuilding  where  they  would  find  a  small 
cook  stove,  he  said,  and  also  he  would  give  them  fresh 
milk.  Further,  if  Saxon  wanted  to  test  her  desire  for 
farming,  she  could  try  her  hand  on  the  cow. 

The  milking  lesson  did  not  prove  as  successful  as  Billy 's 
plowing;  but  when  he  had  mocked  sufficiently,  Saxon 
challenged  him  to  try,  and  he  failed  as  grievously  as  she. 
Saxon  had  eyes  and  questions  for  everything,  and  it  did 
not  take  her  long  to  realize  that  she  was  looking  upon  the 
other  side  of  the  farming  shield.  Farm  and  fanner  were 
old-fashioned.  There  was  no  intensive  cultivation.  There 
was  too  much  land  too  little  farmed.  Everything  was 
slipshod.  House  and  barn  and  outbuildings  were  fast  fall- 
ing into  ruin.  The  front  yard  was  weed-grown.  There 
was  no  vegetable  garden.  The  small  orchard  was  old, 
sickly,  and  neglected.  The  trees  were  twisted,  spindling, 
and  overgrown  with  a  gray  moss.  The  sons  and  daugh- 


330  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

ters  were  away  in  the  cities,  Saxon  found  out.  One  daugh- 
ter had  married  a  doctor,  the  other  was  a  teacher  in  the 
state  normal  school;  one  son  was  a  locomotive  engineer, 
the  second  was  an  architect,  and  the  third  was  a  police 
court  reporter  in  San  Francisco.  On  occasion,  the  fathef 
said,  they  helped  out  the  old  folks. 

"What  do  you  think?"  Saxon  asked  Billy  as  he  smoked 
his  after-supper  cigarette. 

His  shoulders  went  up  in  a  comprehensive  shrug. 

"Huh!  That's  easy.  The  old  geezer's  like  his  or- 
chard — covered  with  moss.  It's  plain  as  the  nose  on  your 
face,  after  San  Leandro,  that  he  don't  know  the  first 
thing.  An'  them  horses.  It'd  be  a  charity  to  him,  an' 
a  savin'  of  money  for  him,  to  take  'era  out  an'  shoot  'em 
both.  You  bet  you  don't  see  the  Porchugeeze  with  horses 
like  them.  An'  it  ain't  a  case  of  bein'  proud,  or  puttin' 
on  side,  to  have  good  horses.  It's  brass  tacks  an'  business. 
It  pays.  That's  the  game.  Old  horses  eat  more'n  young 
ones  to  keep  in  condition  an '  they  can  Jt  do  the  same  amount 
of  work.  But  you  bet  it  costs  just  as  much  to  shoe  them. 
An'  his  is  scrub  on  top  of  it.  Every  minute  he  has  them 
horses  he's  losin'  money.  You  oughta  see  the  way  they 
work  an'  figure  horses  in  the  city." 

They  slept  soundly,  and,  after  an  early  breakfast,  pre- 
pared to  start. 

"I'd  like  to  give  you  a  couple  of  days'  work,"  the  old 
man  regretted,  at  parting,  "but  I  can't  see  it.  The  ranch 
just  about  keeps  me  and  the  old  woman,  now  that  the 
children  are  gone.  An'  then  it  don't  always.  Seems 
times  have  been  bad  for  a  long  spell  now.  Ain't  never 
been  the  same  since  Grover  Cleveland." 

Early  in  the  afternon,  on  the  outskirts  of  San  Jose,, 
Saxon  called  a  halt. 

"I'm  going  right  in  there  and  talk,"  she  declared, 
"unless  they  set  the  dogs  on  me.  That's  the  prettiest 
place  yet,  isn't  it?" 

Billy,  who  was  always  visioning  hills  and  spacious  range! 
for  his  horses,  mumbled  unenthusiastic  assent. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     331 

"And  the  vegetables!  Look  at  them!  And  the  flow- 
ers growing  along  the  borders!  That  beats  tomato  plants 
in  wrapping  paper." 

"Don't  see  the  sense  of  it,"  Billy  objected.  "Where's 
the  money  come  in  from  flowers  that  take  up  the  ground 
that  good  vegetables  might  be  growin'  on?" 

"And  that's  what  I'm  going  to  find  out."  She  pointed 
to  a  woman,  stooped  to  the  ground  and  working  with 
a  trowel,  in  front  of  the  tiny  bungalow.  "I  don't  know 
what  she's  like,  but  at  the  worst  she  can  only  be  mean. 
See !  She 's  looking  at  us  now.  Drop  your  load  alongside 
of  mine,  and  come  on  in." 

Billy  slung  the  blankets  from  his  shoulder  to  the  ground, 
but  elected  to  wait.  As  Saxon  went  up  the  narrow,  flower- 
bordered  walk,  she  noted  two  men  at  work  among  the 
vegetables — one  an  old  Chinese,  the  other  old  and  of 
some  dark-eyed  foreign  breed.  Here  were  neatness,  effi- 
ciency, and  intensive  cultivation  with  a  vengeance — even 
her  untrained  eye  could  see  that.  The  woman  stood  up 
and  turned  from  her  flowers,  and  Saxon  saw  that  she  was 
middle-aged,  slender,  and  simply  but  nicely  dressed.  She 
wore  glasses,  and  Saxon's  reading  of  her  face  was  that 
it  was  kind  but  nervous  looking. 

"I  don't  want  anything  to-day,"  she  said,  before  Saxon 
could  speak,  administering  the  rebuff  with  a  pleasant 
smile. 

Saxon  groaned  inwardly  over  the  black-covered  telescope 
basket.  Evidently  the  woman  had  seen  he*  put  it  down. 

"We're  not  peddling,"  she  explained  quickly. 

"Oh,  I  am  sorry  for  the  mistake." 

This  time  the  woman's  smile  was  even  pleasanter,  and 
she  waited  for  Saxon  to  state  her  errand. 

Nothing  loath,  Saxon  took  it  at  a  plunge. 

"We're  looking  for  land.  We  want  to  be  farmers,  you 
know,  and  before  we  get  the  land  we  want  to  find  out 
what  kind  of  land  we  want.  And  seeing  your  pretty  place 
has  just  filled  me  up  with  questions.  You  see,  we  don't 
know  anything  about  farming.  We've  lived  in  the  city 


332  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

all  our  life,  and  now  we've  given  it  up  and  are  going 
to  live  in  the  country  and  be  happy." 

She  paused.  The  woman's  face  seemed  to  grow  quiz- 
zical, though  the  pleasantness  did  not  abate. 

"But  how  do  you  know  you  will  be  happy  in  the  coun- 
try?" she  asked. 

"I  don't  know.  All  I  do  know  is  that  poor  people 
can't  be  happy  in  the  city  where  they  have  labor  trou- 
bles all  the  time.  If  they  can't  be  happy  in  the  country, 
then  there's  no  happiness  anywhere,  and  that  doesn't  seem 
fair,  does  it?" 

"It  is  sound  reasoning,  my  dear,  as  far  as  it  goes.  But 
you  must  remember  that  there  are  many  poor  people 
in  the  country  and  many  unhappy  people." 

"You  look  neither  poor  nor  unhappy,"  Saxon  chal- 
lenged. 

"You  are  a  dear." 

Saxon  saw  the  pleased  flush  in  the  other's  face,  which 
lingered  as  she  went  on. 

"But  still,  I  may  be  peculiarly  qualified  to  live 
and  succeed  in  the  country.  As  you  say  yourself, 
you've  spent  your  life  in  the  city.  You  don't  know  the 
first  thing  about  the  country.  It  might  even  break  your 
heart." 

Saxon's  mind  went  back  to  the  terrible  months  in  the 
Pine  street  cottage. 

"I  know  already  that  the  city  will  break  my  heart. 
Maybe  the  country  will,  too,  but  just  the  same  it's  my 
only  chance,  don't  you  see.  It's  that  or  nothing.  Be- 
sides, our  folks  before  us  were  all  of  the  country.  It' 
seems  the  more  natural  way.  And  better,  here  I  am,  which 
proves  that  'way  down  inside  I  must  want  the  country, 
must,  as  you  call  it,  be  peculiarly  qualified  for  the  coun- 
try, or  else  I  wouldn't  be  here." 

The  other  nodded  approval,  and  looked  at  her  with 
growing  interest. 

"That  young  man "  she  began. 

"Is  my  husband.     He  was  a  teamster  until  the  big 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     333 

strike  came.  My  name  is  Roberts,  Saxon  Roberts,  and 
my  husband  is  "William  Roberts." 

"And  I  am  Mrs.  Mortimer,"  the  other  said,  with  a  bow 
of  acknowledgment.  "I  am  a  widow.  And  now,  if  you 
will  ask  your  husband  in,  I  shall  try  to  answer  some  of 
your  many  questions.  Tell  him  to  put  the  bundles  inside 
the  gate.  .  .  .  And  now  what  are  all  the  questions 
you  are  filled  with?" 

"Oh,  all  kinds.  How  does  it  pay?  How  did  you  man- 
age it  all?  How  much  did  the  land  cost?  Did  you  build 
that  beautiful  house?  How  much  do  you  pay  the  men? 
How  did  you  learn  all  the  different  kinds  of  things,  and 
which  grew  best  and  which  paid  best?  "What  is  the  best 
way  to  sell  them  ?  How  do  you  sell  them  ? ' '  Saxon  paused 
and  laughed.  "Oh,  I  haven't  begun  yet.  Why  do  you 
have  flowers  on  the  borders  everywhere?  I  looked  over 
the  Portuguese  farms  around  San  Leandro,  but  they  never 
mixed  flowers  and  vegetables." 

Mrs.  Mortimer  held  up  her  hand.  "Let  me  answer  the 
last  first.  It  is  the  key  to  almost  everything." 

But  Billy  arrived,  and  the  explanation  was  deferred  un- 
til after  his  introduction. 

"The  flowers  caught  your  eyes,  didn't  they,  my  dear?" 
Mrs.  Mortimer  resumed.  "And  brought  you  in  through 
my  gate  and  right  up  to  me.  And  that's  the  very  reason 
they  were  planted  with  the  vegetables — to  catch  eyes. 
You  can't  imagine  how  many  eyes  they  have  caught,  nor 
how  many  owners  of  eyes  they  have  lured  inside  my  gate. 
This  is  a  good  road,  and  is  a  very  popular  short  country 
drive  for  townsfolk.  Oh,  no ;  I  've  never  had  any  luck 
with  automobiles.  They  can't  see  anything  for  dust.  But 
I  began  when  nearly  everybody  still  used  carriages.  The 
townswomen  would  drive  by.  My  flowers,  and  then  my 
place,  would  catch  their  eyes.  They  would  tell  their  driv- 
ers to  stop.  And — well,  somehow,  I  managed  to  be  in  the 
front  within  speaking  distance.  Usually  I  succeeded  in  in- 
viting them  in  to  see  my  flowers  .  .  .  and  vegetables, 
of  course.  Everything  was  sweet,  clean,  pretty.  It  all 


334  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

appealed.  And "  Mrs.  Mortimer  shrugged  her  shoul- 
ders. ''It  is  well  known  that  the  stomach  sees  through 
the  eyes.  The  thought  of  vegetables  growing  among  flow- 
ers pleased  their  fancy.  They  wanted  my  vegetables. 
They  must  have  them.  And  they  did,  at  double  the  market 
price,  which  they  were  only  too  glad  to  pay.  You  see,  I 
became  the  fashion,  or  a  fad,  in  a  small  way.  Nobody 
lost.  The  vegetables  were  certainly  good,  as  good  as  any 
on  the  market  and  often  fresher.  And,  besides,  my  cus- 
tomers killed  two  birds  with  one  stone;  for  they  were 
pleased  with  themselves  for  philanthropic  reasons.  Not 
only  did  they  obtain  the  finest  and  freshest  possible  vege- 
tables, but  at  the  same  time  they  were  happy  with  the 
knowledge  that  they  were  helping  a  deserving  widow- 
woman.  Yes,  and  it  gave  a  certain  tone  to  their  estab- 
lishments to  be  able  to  say  they  bought  Mrs.  Mortimer's 
vegetables.  But  that 's  too  big  a  side  to  go  into.  In  short, 
my  little  place  became  a  show  place — anywhere  to  go,  for 
a  drive  or  anything,  you  know,  when  time  has  to  be  killed. 
And  it  became  noised  about  who  I  was,  and  who  my  hus- 
band had  been,  what  I  had  been.  Some  of  the  towns- 
ladies  I  had  known  personally  in  the  old  days.  The}" 
actually  worked  for  my  success.  And  then,  too,  I  used 
to  serve  tea.  My  patrons  became  my  guests  for  the  time 
being.  I  still  serve  it,  when  they  drive  out  to  show  me 
off  to  their  friends.  So  you  see,  the  flowers  are  one  of 
the  ways  I  succeeded." 

Saxon  was  glowing  with  appreciation,  but  Mrs.  Mortimer, 
glancing  at  Billy,  noted  not  entire  approval.  His  blue 
eyes  were  clouded. 

"Well,  out  with  it,"  she  encouraged.  ''What  are  you 
thinking  ? ' ' 

To  Saxon's  surprise,  he  answered  directly,  and  to  her 
double  surprise,  his  criticism  was  of  a  nature  which  had 
never  entered  her  head. 

"It's  just  a  trick,"  Billy  expounded.  "That's  what 
I  was  gettin'  at " 


THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON  33* 

"But  a  paying  trick,"  Mrs.  Mortimer  interrupted,  her 
eyes  dancing  and  vivacious  behind  the  glasses. 

"Yes,  and  no,"  Billy  said  stubbornly,  speaking  in  his 
slow,  deliberate  fashion.  "If  every  farmer  was  to  mix 
flowers  an'  vegetables,  then  every  farmer  would  get  dou- 
ble the  market  price,  an'  then  there  wouldn't  be  any 
double  market  price.  Everything 'd  be  as  it  was  before." 

"You  are  opposing  a  theory  to  a  fact,"  Mrs.  Mortimer 
stated.  "The  fact  is  that  all  the  farmers  do  not  do  it. 
The  fact  is  that  I  do  receive  double  the  price.  You  can't 
get  away  from  that." 

Billy  was  unconvinced,  though  unable  to  reply. 

"Just  the  same,"  he  muttered,  with  a  slow  shake  of 
the  head,  "I  don't  get  the  hang  of  it.  There's  something 
wrong  so  far  as  we're  concerned — my  wife  an*  me,  I 
mean.  Maybe  I'll  get  hold  of  it  after  a  while." 

"And  in  the  meantime,  we'll  look  around,"  Mrs.  Morti- 
mer invited.  "I  want  to  show  you  everything,  and  tell 
you  how  I  make  it  go.  Afterward,  we  '11  sit  down,  and  I  '11 
tell  you  about  the  beginning.  You  see — "  she  bent  her 
gaze  on  Saxon —  "I  want  you  thoroughly  to  understand 
that  you  can  succeed  in  the  country  if  you  go  about  it 
right.  I  didn't  know  a  thing  about  it  when  I  began,  and 
I  didn't  have  a  fine  big  man  like  yours.  I  was  all  alone. 
But  I'll  tell  you  about  that." 

For  the  next  hour,  among  vegetables,  berry-bushes  and 
fruit  trees,  Saxon  stored  her  brain  with  a  huge  mass  of 
information  to  be  digested  at  her  leisure.  Billy,  too,  was 
interested,  but  he  left  the  talking  to  Saxon,  himself  rarely 
asking  a  question.  At  the  rear  of  the  bungalow,  where 
everything  was  as  clean  and  orderly  as  the  front,  they 
were  shown  through  the  chicken  yard.  Here,  in  differ- 
ent runs,  were  kept  several  hundred  small  and  snow-white 
hens. 

"White  Leghorns,"  said  Mrs.  Mortimer.  "You  have 
no  idea  what  they  netted  me  this  year.  I  never  keep  a  hen 
a  moment  past  the  prime  of  her  laying  period " 


336  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

"Just  what  I  was  tellin'  you,  Saxon,  about  horses," 
Billy  broke  in. 

"And  by  the  simplest  method  of  hatching  them  at  the 
right  time,  which  not  one  farmer  in  ten  thousand  ever 
dreams  of  doing,  I  have  them  laying  in  the  winter  when 
most  hens  stop  laying  and  when  eggs  are  highest.  An- 
other thing:  I  have  my  special  customers.  They  pay 
me  ten  cents  a  dozen  more  than  the  market  price,  because 
my  specialty  is  one-day  eggs." 

Here  she  chanced  to  glance  at  Billy,  and  guessed  that 
he  was  still  wrestling  with  his  problem. 

"Same  old  thing?"  she  queried. 

He  nodded.  "Same  old  thing.  If  every  farmer  deliv- 
ered day-old  eggs,  there  wouldn't  be  no  ten  eents  higher 'n 
the  top  price.  They'd  be  no  better  off  than  they  was 
before." 

"But  the  eggs  would  be  one-day  eggs,  all  the  eggs  would 
be  one-day  eggs,  you  mustn't  forget  that,"  Mrs.  Mortimer 
pointed  out. 

"But  that  don't  butter  no  toast  for  my  wife  an'  me," 
he  objected.  "An*  that's  what  I've  ben  tryin'  to  get  the 
hang  of,  an'  now  I  got  it.  You  talk  about  theory  an'  fact. 
Ten  cents  higher  than  top  price  is  a  theory  to  Saxon  an' 
me.  The  fact  is,  we  ain't  got  no  eggs,  no  chickens,  an'  no 
land  for  the  chickens  to  run  an'  lay  eggs  on." 

Their  hostess  nodded  sympathetically. 

"An'  there's  something  else  about  this  outfit  of  yourn 
that  I  don't  get  the  hang  of,"  he  pursued.  "I  can't  just 
p»t  my  finger  on  it,  but  it's  there  all  right." 

They  were  shown  over  the  cattery,  the  piggery,  the 
milkery,  and  the  kennelry,  as  Mrs.  Mortimer  called  her  live 
stock  departments.  None  was  large.  All  were  money- 
makers, she  assured  them,  and  rattled  off  her  profits  glibly. 
She  took  their  breaths  away  by  the  prices  given  and  re- 
ceived for  pedigreed  Persians,  pedigreed  Ohio  Improved 
Chesters,  pedigreed  Scotch  collies,  and  pedigreed  Jerseys. 
For  the  milk  of  the  last  she  also  had  a  special  private  mar- 
ket, receiving  five  cents  more  a  quart  than  was  fetched 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     337 

by  the  best  dairy  milk.  Billy  was  quick  to  point  out  the 
difference  between  the  look  of  her  orchard  and  the  look 
of  the  orchard  they  had  inspected  the  previous  afternoon, 
and  Mrs.  Mortimer  showed  him  scores  of  other  differences, 
many  of  which  he  was  compelled  to  accept  on  faith. 

Then  she  told  them  of  another  industry,  her  home-made 
jams  and  jellies,  always  contracted  for  in  advance,  and 
at  prices  dizzyingly  beyond  the  regular  market.  They  sat 
'in  comfortable  rattan  chairs  on  the  veranda,  while  she  told 
the  story  of  how  she  had  drummed  up  the  jam  and  jelly 
trade,  dealing  only  with  the  one  best  restaurant  and  one 
best  club  in  San  Jose.  To  the  proprietor  and  the  steward 
she  had  gone  with  her  samples,  in  long  discussions  beaten 
down  their  opposition,  overcome  their  reluctance,  and  per- 
suaded the  proprietor,  in  particular,  to  make  a  "special'* 
of  her  wares,  to  boom  them  quietly  with  his  patrons,  and, 
above  all,  to  charge  stiffly  for  dishes  and  courses  in  which 
they  appeared. 

Throughout  the  recital  Billy's  eyes  were  moody  with 
dissatisfaction.  Mrs.  Mortimer  saw,  and  waited. 

"And  now,  begin  at  the  beginning,"  Saxon  begged. 

But  Mrs.  Mortimer  refused  unless  they  agreed  to  stop 
for  supper.  Saxon  frowned  Billy's  reluctance  away,  and 
accepted  for  both  of  them. 

"Well,  then,"  Mrs.  Mortimer  took  up  her  tale,  "in  the 
beginning  I  was  a  greenhorn,  city  born  and  bred.  All  I 
knew  of  the  country  was  that  it  was  a  place  to  go  to  for 
vacations,  and  I  always  went  to  springs  and  mountain  and 
'seaside  resorts.  I  had  lived  among  books  almost  all  my 
life.  I  was  head  librarian  of  the  Doncaster  Library  for 
years.  Then  I  married  Mr.  Mortimer.  He  was  a  book  man, 
a  professor  in  San  Miguel  University.  He  had  a  long 
sickness,  and  when  he  died  there  was  nothing  left.  Even 
his  life  insurance  was  eaten  into  before  I  could  be  free  of 
creditors.  As  for  myself,  I  was  worn  out,  on  the  verge 
of  nervous  prostration,  fit  for  nothing.  I  had  five  thou- 
sand dollars  left,  however,  and,  without  going  into  the  de- 
tails, I  decided  to  go  farming.  I  found  this  place,  in  a 


338  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

delightful  climate,  close  to  San  Jose — the  end  of  the  elec- 
tric line  is  only  a  quarter  of  a  mile  on — and  I  bought  it 
I  paid  two  thousand  cash,  and  gave  a  mortgage  for  two 
thousand.  It  cost  two  hundred  an  acre,  you  see." 

"Twenty  acres!"  Saxon  cried. 

"Wasn't  that  pretty  small?"  Billy  ventured. 

"Too  large,  oceans  too  large.  I  leased  ten  acres  of  it 
the  first  thing.  And  it's  still  leased  after  all  this  time. 
Even  the  ten  I'd  retained  was  much  too  large  for  a  long, 
long  time.  It 's  only  now  that  1 7m  beginning  to  feel  a  tiny 
mite  crowded." 

"And  ten  acres  has  supported  you  an'  two  hired  men?" 
Billy  demanded,  amazed. 

Mrs.  Mortimer  clapped  her  hands  delightedly. 

"Listen.  I  had  been  a  librarian.  I  knew  my  way 
among  books.  First  of  all  I'd  read  everything  written  on 
the  subject,  and  subscribed  to  some  of  the  best  farm  maga- 
zines and  papers.  And  you  ask  if  my  ten  acres  have  sup- 
ported me  and  two  hired  men.  Let  me  tell  you.  I  have 
four  hired  men.  The  ten  acres  certainly  must  support 
them,  as  it  supports  Hannah — she's  a  Swedish  widow  who 
runs  the  house  and  who  is  a  perfect  Trojan  during  the  jam 
and  jelly  season — and  Hannah's  daughter,  who  goes  to 
school  and  lends  a  hand,  and  my  nephew  whom  I  have 
taken  to  raise  and  educate.  Also,  the  ten  acres  have  come 
pretty  close  to  paying  for  the  whole  twenty,  as  well  as  for 
this  house,  and  all  the  outbuildings,  and  all  the  pedigreed 
stock."  , 

Saxon  remembered  what  the  young  lineman  had  said 
about  the  Portuguese. 

"The  ten  acres  didn't  do  a  bit  of  it,"  she  cried.  "It 
was  your  head  that  did  it  all,  and  you  know  it." 

"And  that's  the  point,  my  dear.  It  shows  the  right 
kind  of  person  can  succeed  in  the  country.  Remember, 
the  soil  is  generous.  But  it  must  be  treated  generously, 
and  that  is  something  the  old  style  American  farmer  can't 
get  into  his  head.  So  it  is  head  that  counts.  Even  when 
his  starving  acres  have  convinced  him  of  the  need  for  fer- 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     339 

tilizing,  lie  can't  see  the  difference  between  cheap  fertilizer 
and  good  fertilizer." 

"And  that's  something  I  want  to  know  about,"  Saxon 
exclaimed. 

"And  111  tell  you  all  I  know,  but,  first,  you  must  be 
very  tired.  I  noticed  you  were  limping.  Let  me  take  you 
in — never  mind  your  bundles;  I'll  send  Chang  for  them." 

To  Saxon,  with  her  innate  love  of  beauty  and  charm  in 
all  personal  things,  the  interior  of  the  bungalow  was  a 
revelation.  Never  before  had  she  been  inside  a  middle 
class  home,  and  what  she  saw  not  only  far  exceeded  any- 
thing she  had  imagined,  but  was  vastly  different  from  her 
imaginings.  Mrs.  Mortimer  noted  her  sparkling  glances 
which  took  in  everything,  and  went  out  of  her  way  to 
show  Saxon  around,  doing  it  under  the  guise  of  gleeful 
boastings,  stating  the  costs  of  the  different  materials, 
explaining  how  she  had  done  things  with  her  own  hands, 
such  as  staining  the  floors,  weathering  the  bookcases,  and 
putting  together  the  big  Mission  Morris  chair.  Billy 
stepped  gingerly  behind,  and  though  it  never  entered  his 
mind  to  ape  to  the  manner  born,  he  succeeded  in  escaping 
conspicuous  awkwardness,  even  at  the  table  where  he  and 
Saxon  had  the  unique  experience  of  being  waited  on  in  a 
private  house  by  a  servant. 

"If  you'd  only  come  along  next  year,"  Mrs.  Mortimer 
mourned;  "then  I  should  have  had  the  spare  room  I  had 
planned " 

' '  That 's  all  right, ' '  Billy  spoke  up ;  "  thank  you  just  the 
'same.  But  we'll  catch  the  electric  cars  into  San  Jose  an* 
get  a  room." 

Mrs.  Mortimer  was  still  disturbed  at  her  inability  to  put 
them  up  for  the  night,  and  Saxon  changed  the  conversa- 
tion by  pleading  to  be  told  more. 

"You  remember,  I  told  you  I'd  paid  only  two  thousand 
down  on  the  land, ' '  Mrs.  Mortimer  complied.  ' '  That  left 
me  three  thousand  to  experiment  with.  Of  course,  all  my 
friends  and  relatives  prophesied  failure.  And,  of  course, 
I  made  my  mistakes,  plenty  of  them,  but  T.  was  saved 


340  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

from  still  more  by  the  thorough  study  I  had  made  and 
continued  to  make."  She  indicated  shelves  of  farm  books 
and  files  of  farm  magazines  that  lined  the  walls.  "And  I 
continued  to  study.  I  was  resolved  to  be  up  to  date,  and 
I  sent  for  all  the  experiment  station  reports.  I  went  al- 
most entirely  on  the  basis  that  whatever  the  old  type 
farmer  did  was  wrong,  and,  do  you  know,  in  doing  that 
I  was  not  so  far  wrong  myself.  It's  almost  unthinkable, 

the  stupidity  of  the  old-fashioned  farmers.  Oh,  I 

consulted  with  them,  talked  things  over  with  them,  chal- 
lenged their  stereotyped  ways,  demanded  demonstration 
of  their  dogmatic  and  prejudiced  beliefs,  and  quite  suc- 
ceeded in  convincing  the  last  of  them  that  I  was  a  fool  and 
doomed  to  come  to  grief." 

"But  you  didn't!    You  didn't!" 

Mrs.  Mortimer  smiled  gratefully. 

"Sometimes,  even  now,  I'm  amazed  that  I  didn't.  But 
I  came  of  a  hard-headed  stock  which  had  been  away  from 
the  soil  long  enough  to  gain  a  new  perspective.  When 
a  thing  satisfied  my  judgment,  I  did  it  forthwith  and  down- 
right, no  matter  how  extravagant  it  seemed.  Take  the  old 
orchard.  Worthless!  Worse  than  worthless!  Old  Cal- 
kins nearly  died  of  heart  disease  when  he  saw  the  devas- 
tation I  had  wreaked  upon  it.  And  look  at  it  now.  There 
was  an  old  rattletrap  ruin  where  the  bungalow  now  stands. 
I  put  up  with  it,  but  I  immediately  pulled  down  the  cow 
barn,  the  pigsties,  the  chicken  houses,  everything — made 
a  clean  sweep.  They  shook  their  heads  and  groaned  when 
they  saw  such  wanton  waste  by  a  widow  struggling  to  make 
a  living.  But  worse  was  to  come.  They  were  paralyzed 
when  I  told  them  the  price  of  the  three  beautiful  0.  I.  C. 's 
— pigs,  you  know,  Chesters — which  I  bought,  sixty  dollars 
for  the  three,  and  only  just  weaned.  Then  I  hustled  the 
nondescript  chickens  to  market,  replacing  them  with  the 
White  Leghorns.  The  two  scrub  cows  that  came  with  the 
place  I  sold  to  the  butcher  for  thirty  dollars  each,  paying 
two  hundred  and  fifty  for  two  blue-blooded  Jersey  heifers 
•  .  .  and  coined  money  on  the  exchange,  while  Calkins 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     341 

and  the  rest  went  right  on  with  their  scrubs  that  couldn't 
give  enough  milk  to  pay  for  their  board." 

Billy  nodded  approval. 

"Remember  what  I  told  you  about  horses,"  he  reiter- 
ated to  Saxon ;  and,  assisted  by  his  hostess,  he  gave  a  very 
creditable  disquisition  on  horseflesh  and  its  management 
from  a  business  point  of  view. 

When  he  went  out  to  smoke  Mrs.  Mortimer  led  Saxon 
into  talking  about  herself  and  Billy,  and  betrayed  not  the 
slightest  shock  when  she  learned  of  his  prizefighting  and 
scab-slugging  proclivities. 

"He's  a  splendid  young  man,  and  good,"  she  assured 
Saxon.  "His  face  shows  that.  And,  best  of  all,  he  loves 
you  and  is  proud  of  you.  You  can't  imagine  how  I  have 
enjoyed  watching  the  way  he  looks  at  you,  especially  when 
you  are  talking.  He  respects  your  judgment.  "Why,  he 
must,  for  here  he  is  with  you  on  this  pilgrimage  which  is 
wholly  your  idea."  Mrs.  Mortimer  sighed.  "You  are  very 
fortunate,  dear  child,  very  fortunate.  And  you  don't 
yet  know  what  a  man's  brain  is.  Wait  till  he  is  quite  fired 
with  enthusiasm  for  your  project.  You  will  be  astounded 
by  the  way  he  takes  hold.  You  will  have  to  exert  yourself 
to  keep  up  with  him.  In  the  meantime,  you  must  lead. 
Remember,  he  is  city  bred.  It  will  be  a  struggle  to  wean 
him  from  the  only  life  he's  known." 

"Oh,  but  he's  disgusted  with  the  city,  too "  Saxon 

began. 

"But  not  as  you  are.  Love  is  not  the  whole  of  man,  as 
j  it  is  of  woman.  The  city  hurt  you  more  than  it  hurt  him. 
'  It  was  you  who  lost  the  dear  little  babe.  His  interest,  his 
•  connection,  was  no  more  than  casual  and  incidental  com- 
pared with  the  depth  and  vividness  of  yours." 

Mrs.  Mortimer  turned  her  head  to  Billy,  who  was  just 
entering. 

"Have  you  got  the  hang  of  what  was  bothering  you?" 
she  asked. 

"Pretty  close  to  it,"  he  answered,  taking  the  indicated 
big  Morris  chair.  "It's  this " 


342  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE  MOON 

\ 

''One  moment,"  Mrs.  Mortimer  checked  him.  "That  ia 
a  heautiful,  big,  strong  chair,  and  so  are  you,  at  any  rate 
big  and  strong,  and  your  little  wife  is  very  weary — no, 
no;  sit  down,  it's  your  strength  she  needs.  Yes,  I  insist. 
Open  your  arms." 

And  to  him  she  led  Saxon,  and  into  his  arms  placed  her. 
"Now,  sir — and  you  look  delicious,  the  pair  of  you — reg— 
ister  your  objections  to  my  way  of  earning  a  living." 

"It  ain't  your  way,"  Billy  repudiated  quickly.  "Your 
way's  all  right.  It's  great.  "What  I'm  trying  to  get  at 
is  that  your  way  don't  fit  us.  "We  couldn't  make  a  go  of 
it  your  way.  Why  you  had  pull — well-to-do  acquaintances, 
people  that  knew  you'd  ben  a  librarian  an'  your  husband 
a  professor.  An'  you  had  .  .  ."  Here  he  floundered 
a  moment,  seeking  definiteness  for  the  idea  he  still  vaguely 
grasped.  "Well,  you  had  a  way  we  couldn't  have.  You 
were  educated,  an'  .  .  .  an' — I  don't  know,  I  guess 
you  knew  society  ways  an'  business  ways  we  couldn't 
know." 

"But,  my  dear  boy,  you  could  learn  what  was  neces- 
sary," she  contended. 

Billy  shook  his  head. 

"No.  You  don't  quite  get  me.  Let's  take  it  this  way. 
Just  suppose  it's  me,  with  jam  an*  jelly,  a-wadin'  into 
that  swell  restaurant  like  you  did  to  talk  with  the  top 
guy.  Why,  I'd  be  outa  place  the  moment  I  stepped  into 
his  office.  Worse 'n  that,  I'd  feel  outa  place.  That'd 
make  me  have  a  chip  on  my  shoulder  an'  lookin'  for 
trouble,  which  is  a  poor  way  to  do  business.  Then,  too, 
I'd  be  thinkin'  he  was  thinkin'  I  was  a  whole  lot  of  a 
husky  to  be  peddlin'  jam.  What'd  happen?  I'd  be  chesty 
at  the  drop  of  the  hat.  I'd  be  thinkin'  he  was  thinkin'  I 
was  standin'  on  my  foot,  an'  I'd  beat  him  to  it  in  tellin' 
him  he  was  standin'  on  his  foot.  Don't  you  see?  It's 
because  I  was  raised  that  way.  It'd  be  take  it  or  leave 
it  with  me,  an'  no  jam  sold." 

"What  you  say  is  true,"  Mrs.  Mortimer  took  op 
brightly.  "But  there  is  your  wife.  Just  look  at  her. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     343 

She'd  make  an  impression  on  any  business  man.    He'd  be 
only  too  willing  to  listen  to  her." 

Billy  stiffened,  a  forbidding  expression  springing  into 
his  eyes. 

"What  have  I  done  now?"  their  hostess  laughed. 
"I  ain't  got  around  yet  to  tradin'  on  my  wife's  looks,'5 
he  rumbled  gruffly. 

"Right  you  are.  The  only  trouble  is  that  you,  both  of 
you,  are  fifty  years  behind  the  times.  You're  old  Ameri- 
can. How  you  ever  got  here  in  the  thick  of  modern  con- 
ditions is  a  miracle.  You're  Rip  Van  Winkles.  Who  ever 
heard,  in  these  degenerate  times,  of  a  young  man  and 
woman  of  the  city  putting  their  blankets  on  their  backs 
and  starting  out  in  search  of  land?  Why,  it's  the  old 
Argonaut  spirit.  You're  as  like  as  peas  in  a  pod  to  those 
who  yoked  their  oxen  and  held  west  to  the  lands  beyond 
the  sunset.  I  '11  wager  your  fathers  and  mothers,  or  grand- 
fathers and  grandmothers,  were  that  very  stock." 

Saxon's  eyes  were  glistening,  and  Billy's  were  friendly 
once  more.  Both  nodded  their  heads. 

"I'm  of  the  old  stock  myself,"  Mrs.  Mortimer  went  on 
proudly.  "My  grandmother  was  one  of  the  survivors  of 
the  Donner  Party.  My  grandfather,  Jason  Whitney,  came 
around  the  Horn  and  took  part  in  the  raising  of  the  Bear 
Flag  at  Sonoma.  He  was  at  Monterey  when  John  Marshall 
discovered  gold  in  Sutter's  mill-race.  One  of  the  streets  in 
San  Francisco  is  named  after  him." 

"I  know  it,"  Billy  put  in.  "Whitney  Street.  It's  near 
Russian  Hill.  Saxon's  mother  walked  across  the  Plains." 

"And  Billy's  grandfather  and  grandmother  were  mas- 
sacred by  the  Indians,"  Saxon  contributed.  "His  father 
was  a  little  baby  boy,  and  lived  with  the  Indians,  until 
captured  by  the  whites.  He  didn't  even  know  his  name 
and  was  adopted  by  a  Mr.  Roberts." 

"Why,  you  two  dear  children,  we're  almost  like  rela- 
tives," Mrs.  Mortimer  beamed.  "It's  a  breath  of  old 
times,  alas!  all  forgotten  in  these  fly-away  days.  I  am 
especially  interested,  because  I've  catalogued  and  read 


344  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

everything  covering  those  times.  You "  she  indicated 

Billy,  "you  are  historical,  or  at  least  your  father  is.  I 
remember  about  him.  The  whole  thing  is  in  Bancroft's 
History.  It  was  the  Modoc  Indians.  There  were  eighteen 
wagons.  Your  father  was  the  only  survivor,  a  mere  baby 
at  the  time,  with  no  knowledge  of  what  happened.  He 
was  adopted  by  the  leader  of  the  whites." 

"That's  right,"  said  Billy.  "It  was  the  Modocs.  His 
train  must  have  ben  bound  for  Oregon.  It  was  all  wiped 
out.  I  wonder  if  you  know  anything  about  Saxon's 
mother.  She  used  to  write  poetry  in  the  early  days. ' ' 

""Was  any  of  it  printed?" 

"Yes,"  Saxon  answered.    "In  the  old  San  Jose  papers." 

"And  do  you  know  any  of  it?" 

"Yes,  there's  one  beginning: 

"  'Sweet  as  the  wind-lute '3  airy  strains 

Your  gentle  muse  has  learned  to  sing, 
And  California's  boundless  plains 
Prolong  the  soft  notes  echoing.'  ' 

"It  sounds  familiar,"  Mrs.  Mortimer  said,  pondering, 
"And  there  was  another  I  remember  that  began: 

"  'I've  stolen  away  from  the  crowd  in  the  groves, 

Where  the  nude  statues  stand,  and  the  leaves  point  and  shiver,'—* 

"And  it  run  on  like  that.  I  don't  understand  it  all. 
It  was  written  to  my  father " 

' ' A  love  poem ! ' '  Mrs.  Mortimer  broke  in.  "I  remember 
it.  "Wait  a  minute  .  .  .  Da-da-dah,  da-da-dah,  da-da- 
dah,  da-da — stands 

"  'In  the  spray  of  a  fountain,  whose  seed-amethysts 

Tremble  lightly  a  moment  on  bosom  and  hands, 

Then  drip  in  their  basin  from  bosom  and  wrists. ' 

"I've  never  forgotten  the  drip  of  the  seed-amethysta, 
though  I  don't  remember  your  mother's  name." 
'''It  was  Daisy "  Saxon  began. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     345 

"No;  Dayelle,"  Mrs.  Mortimer  corrected  with  quicken- 
ing recollection. 

"Oh,  but  nobody  called  her  that." 

"But  she  signed  it  that  way.    What  is  the  rest?" 

"Daisy  Wiley  Brown." 

Mrs.  Mortimer  went  to  the  bookshelves  and  quickly  re- 
turned with  a  large,  soberly-bound  volume. 

"It's  'The  Story  of  the  Files,'  "  she  explained.  "Among 
other  things,  all  the  good  fugitive  verse  was  gathered  here 
from  the  old  newspaper  files."  Her  eyes  running  down 
the  index  suddenly  stopped.  ' '  I  was  right.  Dayelle  Wiley 
Brown.  There  it  is.  Ten  of  her  poems,  too :  *  The  Viking's 
Quest';  'Days  of  Gold';  'Constancy';  'The  Caballero'; 
'Graves  at  Little  Meadow " 

"We  fought  off  the  Indians  there,"  Saxon  interrupted 
in  her  excitement.  "And  mother,  who  was  only  a  little 
girl,  went  out  and  got  water  for  the  wounded.  And  the 
Indians  wouldn't  shoot  at  her.  Everybody  said  it  was  a 
miracle."  She  sprang  out  of  Billy's  arms,  reaching  for 
the  book  and  crying:  "Oh,  let  me  see  it!  Let  me  see  it! 
It's  all  new  to  me.  I  don't  know  these  poems.  Can  I 
copy  them?  I'll  learn  them  by  heart.  Just  to  think,  my 
mother's!'' 

Mrs.  Mortimer's  glasses  required  repolishing;  and  for 
half  an  hour  she  and  Billy  remained  silent  while  Saxon 
devoured  her  mother's  lines.  At  the  end,  staring  at  the 
book  which  she  had  closed  on  her  finger,  she  could  only 
repeat  in  wondering  awe: 

"And  I  never  knew,  I  never  knew." 

But  during  that  half  hour  Mrs.  Mortimer's  mind  had 
not  been  idle.  A  little  later,  she  broached  her  plan.  She 
believed  in  intensive  dairying  as  well  as  intensive  farm- 
ing, and  intended,  as  soon  as  the  lease  expired,  to  estab- 
lish a  Jersey  dairy  on  the  other  ten  acres.  This,  like  every- 
thing she  had  done,  would  be  model,  and  it  meant  that 
she  would  require  more  help.  Billy  and  Saxon  were  just 
the  two.  By  next  summer  she  could  have  them  installed 
in  the  cottage  she  intended  building.  In  the  meantime 


346  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE    MOON 

she  could  arrange,  one  way  and  another,  to  get  work  for 
Billy  through  the  winter.  She  would  guarantee  this  work, 
and  she  knew  a  small  house  they  could  rent  just  at  the 
end  of  the  car-line.  Under  her  supervision  Billy  could 
take  charge  from  the  very  beginning  of  the  building.  In 
this  way  they  would  be  earning  money,  preparing  tb  em- 
selves  for  independent  farming  life,  and  have  opportunity 
to  look  about  them. 

But  her  persuasions  were  in  vain.  In  the  end  Saxon  suc- 
cinctly epitomized  their  point  of  view. 

"We  can't  stop  at  the  first  place,  even  if  it  is  as  beauti- 
ful and  kind  as  yours  and  as  nice  as  this  valley  is.  We 
don't  even  know  what  we  want.  We've  got  to  go  farther, 
and  see  all  kinds  of  places  and  all  kinds  of  ways,  in  order 
to  find  out.  We're  not  in  a  hurry  to  make  up  our  minds. 
We  want  to  make,  oh,  so  very  sure !  And  besides  .  .  ." 
She  hesitated.  "Besides,  we  don't  like  altogether  flat  laud. 
Billy  wants  some  hills  in  his.  And  so  do  I." 

When  they  were  ready  to  leave  Mrs.  Mortimer  offered  to 
present  Saxon  with  "The  Story  of  the  Files";  but  Saxon 
shook  her  head  and  got  some  money  from  Billy. 

"It  says  it  costs  two  dollars,"  she  said.  "Will  you 
buy  me  one,  and  keep  it  till  we  get  settled?  Then  I'll 
write,  and  you  can  send  it  to  me." 

"Oh,  you  Americans,"  Mrs.  Mortimer  chided,  accepting 
the  money.  "But  you  must  promise  to  write  from  time 
to  time  before  you're  settled." 

She  saw  them  to  the  county  road. 

"You  are  brave  young  things,"  she  said  at  parting. 
"I  only  wish  I  were  going  with  you,  my  pack  upon  my 
back.  You're  perfectly  glorious,  the  pair  of  you.  If  ever 
I  can  do  anything  for  you,  just  let  me  know.  You're 
bound  to  succeed,  and  I  want  a  hand  in  it  myself.  Let  me 
know  how  that  government  land  turns  out,  though  I  warn 
you  I  haven't  much  faith  in  its  feasibility.  It's  sure  to  be 
too  far  away  from  markets." 

She  shook  hands  with  Billy.  Saxon  she  caught  into  beg 
arms  and  kissed. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     347 

"Be  brave,'*  she  said,  with  low  earnestness,  in  Saxon's 
ear.  "You'll  win.  You  are  starting  with  the  right  ideas. 
And  you  were  right  not  to  accept  my  proposition.  But 
remember,  it,  or  better,  will  always  be  open  to  you.  You  're 
young  yet,  both  of  you.  Don't  be  in  a  hurry.  Any  time 
you  stop  anywhere  for  a  while,  let  me  know,  and  I'll 
mail  you  heaps  of  agricultural  reports  and  farm  publica- 
tions. Good-bye.  Heaps  and  heaps  and  heaps  of  luck." 


CHAPTER  IV 

BILLY  sat  motionless  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  in  theii 
little  room  in  San  Jose  that  night,  a  musing  expression 
in  his  eyes. 

"Well,"  he  remarked  at  last,  with  a  long-drawn  breath, 
"all  I've  got  to  say  is  there's  some  pretty  nice  people  in 
this  world  after  all.  Take  Mrs.  Mortimer.  Now  she's  the 
real  goods — regular  old  American." 

"A  fine,  educated  lady,"  Saxon  agreed,  "and  not  a  bit 
ashamed  to  work  at  farming  herself.  And  she  made  it 
go,  too." 

"On  twenty  acres — no,  ten ;  and  paid  for  'em,  an'  all  im- 
provements, an'  supported  herself,  four  hired  men,  a 
Swede  woman  an'  daughter,  an'  her  own  nephew.  It 
gets  me.  Ten  acres!  "Why,  my  father  never  talked  less'n 
one  hundred  an'  sixty  acres.  Even  your  brother  Tom  still 

talks  in  quarter  sections.  An'  she  was  only  a  woman, 

too.  We  was  lucky  in  meetin'  her." 

"Wasn't  it  an  adventure!"  Saxon  cried.  "That's  what 
eomes  of  traveling.  You  never  know  what 's  going  to  hap- 
pen next.  It  jumped  right  out  at  us,  just  when  we  were 
tired  and  wondering  how  much  farther  to  San  Jose.  We 
weren't  expecting  it  at  all.  And  she  didn't  treat  us  as 
if  we  were  tramping.  And  that  house — so  clean  and  beau- 
tiful. You  could  eat  off  the  floor.  I  never  dreamed  of 
anything  so  sweet  and  lovely  as  the  inside  of  that  house." 

"It  smelt  good,"  Billy  supplied. 

"That's  the  very  thing.  It's  what  the  women's  pages 
call  atmosphere.  I  didn't  know  what  they  meant  before. 
That  house  has  beautiful,  sweet  atmosphere " 

"Like  all  your  nice  underthings, "  said  Billy. 

"And  that's  the  next  step  after  keeping  your  body 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      349 

sweet  and  clean  and  beautiful.     It's  to  have  your  house 
sweet  and  clean  and  beautiful." 

"But  it  can't  be  a  rented  one,  Saxon.  You've  got  to 
own  it.  Landlord's  don't  build  houses  like  that.  Just  the 
same,  one  thing  stuck  out  plain:  that  house  was  not  ex- 
pensive. It  wasn't  the  cost.  It  was  the  way.  The  wood 
was  ordinary  wood  you  can  buy  in  any  lumber  yard.  ( 
Why,  our  house  on  Pine  street  was  made  out  of  the  same 
kind  of  wood.  But  the  way  it  was  made  was  different. 
I  can't  explain,  but  you  can  see  what  I'm  drivin'  at." 

Saxon,  revisioning  the  little  bungalow  they  had  ji^st  left, 
repeated  absently:  "That's  it — the  way." 

The  next  morning  they  were  early  afoot,  seeking  through 
the  suburbs  of  San  Jose  the  road  to  San  Juan  and  Mon- 
terey. Saxon's  limp  had  increased.  Beginning  with  a  burst 
blister,  her  heel  was  skinning  rapidly.  Billy  remembered 
his  father's  talks  about  care  of  the  feet,  and  stopped  at 
a  butcher  shop  to  buy  five  cents'  worth  of  mutton  tal- 
low. 

"That's  the  stuff,"  he  told  Saxon.  "Clean  foot-gear 
and  the  feet  well  greased.  We'll  put  some  on  as  soon 
as  we're  clear  of  town.  An'  we  might  as  well  go  easy  for 
a  couple  of  days.  Now,  if  I  could  get  a  little  work  so  as 
you  could  rest  up  several  days  it'd  be  just  the  thing.  I'll 
keep  my  eye  peeled." 

Almost  on  the  outskirts  of  town  he  left  Saxon  on  the 
county  road  and  went  up  a  long  driveway  to  what  ap- 
peared a  large  farm.  He  came  back  beaming. 

"It's  all  hunkydory,"  he  called  as  he  approached. 
"We'll  just  go  down  to  that  clump  of  trees  by  the  creek 
an'  pitch  camp.  I  start  work  in  the  mornin',  two  dollars 
a  day  an'  board  myself.  It'd  been  a  dollar  an'  a  half  if 
he  furnished  the  board.  I  told  'm  I  liked  the  other  way 
best,  an'  that  I  had  my  camp  with  me.  The  weather's 
fine,  an'  we  can  make  out  a  few  days  till  your  foot's  in 
shape.  Come  on.  We'll  pitch  a  regular,  decent  camp." 

"How  did  you  get  the  job?"  Saxon  asked.,  as  they  cast 
about,  determining  their  camp-site. 


350  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

"Wait  till  we  get  fixed  an'  111  tell  you  all  aboiw  it 
It  was  a  dream,  a  cinch." 

Not  until  the  bed  was  spread,  the  fire  built,  and  a  pot 
of  beans  boiling  did  Billy  throw  down  the  last  armful 
of  wood  and  begin. 

"In  the  first  place,  Benson's  no  old-fashioned  geezer. 
You  wouldn't  think  he  was  a  farmer  to  look  at  'm.  He's 
up  to  date,  sharp  as  tacks,  talks  an'  acts  like  a  business 
man.  I  could  see  that,  just  by  lookin'  at  his  place,  be- 
fore I  seen  him.  He  took  about  fifteen  seconds  to  size  me 
up. 

'  'Can  you  plow?'  says  he. 

"  'Sure  thing,'  I  told  'm. 

"  'Know  horses?' 

"  'I  was  hatched  in  a  box-stall,'  says  I. 

"An'  just  then — you  remember  that  four-horse  load  of 
machinery  that  come  in  after  me? — just  then  it  drove  up. 

"  'How  about  four  horses?'  he  asks,  casual-like. 

"  'Right  to  home.  I  can  drive  'm  to  a  plow,  a  sewin* 
machine,  or  a  merry-go-round.' 

"  'Jump  up  an'  take  them  lines,  then,'  he  says,  quick 
an'  sharp,  not  wastin'  seconds.  'See  that  shed.  Go  'round 
the  barn  to  the  right  an'  back  in  for  unloadin'.' 

"An'  right  here  I  wanta  tell  you  it  was  some  nifty 
drivin'  he  was  askin'.  I  could  see  by  the  tracks  the 
wagons 'd  all  ben  goin'  around  the  barn  to  the  left.  What 
he  was  askin'  was  too  close  work  for  comfort — a  double 
turn,  like  an  S,  between  a  corner  of  a  paddock  an'  aroimd 
the  corner  of  the  barn  to  the  last  swing.  An',  to  eat  into 
the  little  room  there  was,  there  was  piles  of  manure  just 
thrown  outa  the  barn  an'  not  hauled  away  yet.  But  I 
wasn't  lettin'  on  nothin'.  The  driver  gave  me  the  lines, 
an'  I  could  see  he  was  grinnin',  sure  I'd  make  a  mess  of 
it.  I  bet  he  couldn't  a-done  it  himself.  I  never  let  on, 
an'  away  we  went,  me  not  even  knowin'  the  horses — but, 
say,  if  you'd  seen  me  throw  them  leaders  clean  to  the  top 
of  the  manure  till  the  nigh  horse  was  scrapin'  the  side 
of  the  barn  to  make  it.  an'  the  off  hind  hub  was  cuttin'  the 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     351 

corner  post  of  the  paddock  to  miss  by  six  inches.  It  was 
the  only  way.  An'  them  horses  was  sure  beauts.  The 
leaders  slacked  back  an'  darn  near  sat  down  on  their 
singletrees  when  I  threw  the  back  into  the  wheelers  an* 
slammed  on  the  brake  an'  stopped  on  the  very  precise 
spot. 

"  'You'll  do,'  Benson  says.    'That  was  good  work.' 

"  'Aw,  shucks,'  I  says,  indifferent  as  hell.  'Gimme 
something  real  hard.' 

"He  smiles  an'  understands. 

1  'You  done  that  well,'  he  says.  'An'  I'm  particular 
about  who  handles  my  horses.  The  road  ain't  no  place 
for  you.  You  must  be  a  good  man  gone  wrong.  Just  the 
same  you  can  plow  with  my  horses,  startin'  in  to-morrow 
naornin'.' 

"Which  shows  how  wise  he  wasn't.  I  hadn't  showed  I 
could  plow." 

When  Saxon  had  served  the  beans,  and  Billy  the  coffee, 
she  stood  still  a  moment  and  surveyed  the  spread  meal  on 
the  blankets — the  canister  of  sugar,  the  condensed  milk 
tin,  the  sliced  corned  beef,  the  lettuce  salad  and  sliced  to- 
matoes, the  slices  of  fresh  French  bread,  and  the  steaming 
plates  of  beans  and  mugs  of  coffee. 

"What  a  difference  from  last  night!"  Saxon  exclaimed, 
clapping  her  hands.  "It's  like  an  adventure  out  of  a 
book.  Oh,  that  boy  I  went  fishing  with!  Think  of  that 
beautiful  table  and  that  beautiful  house  last  night,  and 
then  look  at  this.  Why,  we  could  have  lived  a  thousand 
years  on  end  in  Oakland  and  never  met  a  woman  like  Mrs. 
Mortimer  nor  dreamed  a  house  like  hers  existed.  And, 
Billy,  just  to  think,  we  've  only  just  started. ' ' 

Billy  worked  for  three  days,  and  while  insisting  that 
he  was  doing  very  well,  he  freely  admitted  that  there  was 
more  in  plowing  than  he  had  thought.  Saxon  experi- 
enced quiet  satisfaction  when  she  learned  he  was  enjoy- 
ing it. 

"I  never  thought  I'd  like  plowin' — much,"  he  observed. 
4 'But  it's  fine.  It's  good  for  the  leg-muscles,  too.  They 


352  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

don't  get  exercise  enough  in  teamin'.  If  ever  I  trained 
for  another  fight,  you  bet  I'd  take  a  whack  at  plowin'. 
An',  you  know,  the  ground  has  a  regular  good  smell  to 
it,  a-turnin'  over  an'  turnin'  over.  Gosh,  it's  good  enough 
to  eat,  that  smell.  An'  it  just  goes  on,  turnin'  up  an'  over, 
fresh-  an*  thick  an'  good,  all  day  long.  An'  the  horses 
are  Joe-dandies.  They  know  their  business  as  well  as  a 
man.  That's  one  thing,  Benson  ain't  got  a  scrub  horse 
on  the  place." 

The  last  day  Billy  worked,  the  sky  clouded  over,  the  air 
grew  damp,  a  strong  wind  began  to  blow  from  the  south- 
east, and  all  the  signs  were  present  of  the  first  winter  rain, 
Billy  came  back  in  the  evening  with  a  small  roll  of  old 
canvas  he  had  borrowed,  which  he  proceeded  to  arrange 
over  their  bed  on  a  framework  so  as  to  shed  rain.  Several 
times  he  complained  about  the  little  finger  of  his  left  hand. 
It  had  been  bothering  him  all  day  he  told  Saxon,  for  sev- 
eral days  slightly,  in  fact,  and  it  was  as  tender  as  a  boil 
— most  likely  a  splinter,  but  he  had  been  unable  to  locate 
it. 

He  went  ahead  with  storm  preparations,  elevating  the 
bed  on  old  boards  which  he  lugged  from  a  disused  barn 
falling  to  decay  on  the  opposite  bank  of  the  creek.  Upon 
the  boards  he  heaped  dry  leaves  for  a  mattress.  He  con- 
cluded by  reinforcing  the  canvas  with  additional  guys 
of  odd  pieces  of  rope  and  baling-wire. 

When  the  first  splashes  of  rain  arrived  Saxon  was  de* 
lighted.  Billy  betrayed  little  interest.  His  finger  was 
hurting  too  much,  he  said.  Neither  he  nor  Saxon  could 
^tnake  anything  of  it,  and  both  scoffed  at  the  idea  of  a 
'felon. 

"It  might  be  a  run-around,"  Saxon  hazarded. 

"What's  that?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  remember  Mrs.  Cady  had  one  once, 
but  I  was  too  small.  It  was  the  little  finger,  too.  She 
poulticed  it,  I  think.  And  I  remember  she  dressed  it 
with  some  kind  of  salve.  It  got  awful  bad.  and  finished  by 
her  losing  the  nail.  After  that  it  got  well  quick,  and  a 


THE    VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 


353 


Dew  nail  grew  out.    Suppose  I  make  a  hot  bread  poultice 
for  yours." 

Billy  declined,  being  of  the  opinion  that  it  would  be 
better  in  the  morning.  Saxon  was  troubled,  and  as  she 
dozed  off  she  knew  that  he  was  lying  restlessly  wide 
awake.  A  few  minutes  afterward,  roused  by  a  heavy  blast 
of  wind  and  rain  on  the  canvas,  she  heard  Billy  softly 
groaning.  She  raised  herself  on  her  elbow  and  with  her 
free  hand,  in  the  way  she  knew,  manipulating  his  forehead 
and  the  surfaces  around  his  eyes,  soothed  him  off  to  sleep. 
Again  she  slept.  And  again  she  was  aroused,  this  time 
not  by  the  storm,  but  by  Billy.  She  could  not  see,  but 
by  feeling  she  ascertained  his  strange  position.  He  was 
outside  the  blankets  and  on  his  knees,  his  forehead  resting 
on  the  boards,  his  shoulders  writhing  with  suppressed 
anguish. 

"She's  pulsin'  to  beat  the  band,"  he  said,  when  she 
spoke.  "It's  worse 'n  a  thousand  toothaches.  But  it  ain't 
nothin'  ...  if  only  the  canvas  don't  blow  down. 
Think  what  our  folks  had  to  stand,"  he  gritted  out  be- 
tween groans.  "Why,  my  father  was  out  in  the  mountains, 
an'  the  man  with  'm  got  mauled  by  a  grizzly — clean  clawed 
to  the  bones  all  over.  An'  they  was  outa  grub  an'  had  to 
travel.  Two  times  outa  three,  when  my  father  put  'm  on 
the  horse,  he'd  faint  away.  Had  to  be  tied  on.  An'  that 
lasted  five  weeks,  an'  he  pulled  through.  Then  there  was 
Jack  Quigley.  He  blowed  off  his  whole  right  hand  with 
>£e  burstin'  of  his  shotgun,  an'  the  hantin'  dog  pup  he 
had  with  'm  ate  up  three  of  the  fingers.  An'  he  was  air 
alone  in  the  marsh,  an' " 

"But  Saxon  heard  no  more  of  the  adventures  of  Jack 
Quigley.  A  terrific  blast  of  wind  parted  several  of  the 
guys,  collapsed  the  framework,  and  for  a  moment  buried 
them  under  the  canvas.  The  next  moment  canvas,  frame- 
work, and  trailing  guys  were  whisked  away  into  the  dark- 
ness, and  Saxon  and  Billy  were  deluged  with  rain. 

"Only  one  thing  to  do,"  he  yelled  in  her  ear. 
'*• Gather  up  the  things  an'  get  into  that  old  barn." 


354  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

They  accomplished  this  in  the  drenching  darkness,  mat 
ing  two  trips  across  the  stepping  stones  of  the  shallov 
creek  and  soaking  themselves  to  the  knees.  The  old  barn 
leaked  like  a  sieve,  but  they  managed  to  find  a  dry  space 
on  which  to  spread  their  anything  but  dry  bedding. 
Billy's  pain  was  heart-rending  to  Saxon.  An  hour  was 
required  to  subdue  him  to  a  doze,  and  only  by  continu- 
ously stroking  his  forehead  could  she  keep  him  asleep. 
Shivering  and  miserable,  she  accepted  a  night  of  wakeful- 
ness  gladly  with  the  knowledge  that  she  kept  him  from 
knowing  the  worst  of  his  pain. 

At  the  time  when  she  had  decided  it  must  be  past  mid- 
night, there  was  an  interruption.  From  the  open  doorway 
came  a  flash  of  electric  light,  like  a  tiny  searchlight,  which 
quested  about  the  barn  and  came  to  rest  on  her  and  Billy,, 
From  the  source  of  light  a  harsh  voice  said: 

"Ah!  ha!  I've  got  you!     Come  out  of  that!" 

Billy  sat  up,  his  eyes  dazzled  by  the  light.  The  voice 
behind  the  light  was  approaching  and  reiterating  its  de- 
mand that  they  come  out  of  that. 

"What's  up?"  Billy  asked. 

"Me,"  was  the  answer;  "an'  wide  awake,  you  bet." 

The  voice  was  now  beside  them,  scarcely  a  yard  away, 
yet  they  could  see  nothing  on  account  of  the  light,  which 
was  intermittent,  frequently  going  out  for  an  instant  as 
the  operator's  thumb  tired  on  the  switch. 

"Come  on,  get  a  move  on,"  the  voice  went  on.  "Roll 
up  your  blankets  an'  trot  along.  I  want  you." 

"Who  in  hell  are  you?"  Billy  demanded. 

"I'm  the  constable.     Come  on." 

"Well,  what  do  you  want?" 

"You,  of  course,  the  pair  of  you." 

"What  for?" 

"Vagrancy.  Now  hustle.  I  ain't  goin'  to  loaf  here  all 
night." 

"Aw,  chase  yourself,"  Billy  advised.  "I  ain't  a  vag. 
I'm  a  workingman." 

"Maybe  you  are  an'  maybe  you  ain't,"  said  the  COB* 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      355 

Btable;  "but  you  can  tell  all  that  to  Judge  Neusbaumer  in 
the  mornin'." 

"Why  you  .  .  .  you  stinkin',  dirty  cur,  you  think 
you're  goin'  to  pull  me,"  Billy  began.  "Turn  the  light 
on  yourself.  I  want  to  see  what  kind  of  an  ugly  mug  you 
got.  Pull  me,  eh?  Pull  me?  For  two  cents  I'd  get  up 
there  an'  beat  you  to  a  jelly,  you " 

"No,  no,  Billy,"  Saxon  pleaded.  "Don't  make  trouble. 
It  would  mean  jail." 

"That's  right,"  the  constable  approved,  "listen  to  your 
woman. ' ' 

"She's  my  wife,  an'  see  you  speak  of  her  as  such," 
Billy  warned.  "Now  get  out,  if  you  know  what's  good 
for  yourself." 

"I've  seen  your  kind  before,"  the  constable  retorted. 
"An'  I've  got  my  little  persuader  with  me.  Take  a 
squint." 

The  shaft  of  light  shifted,  and  out  of  the  darkness,  illu- 
minated with  ghastly  brilliance,  they  saw  thrust  a  hand 
holding  a  revolver.  This  hand  seemed  a  thing  apart,  self- 
existent,  with  no  corporeal  attachment,  and  it  appeared 
and  disappeared  like  an  apparition  as  the  thumb-pressure 
wavered  on  the  switch.  One  moment  they  were  staring 
at  the  hand  and  revolver,  the  next  moment  at  impenetrable 
darkness,  and  the  next  moment  again  at  the  hand  and 
revolver. 

"Now,  I  guess  you'll  come,"  the  constable  gloated. 

"You  got  another  guess  comin',"  Billy  began. 

But  at  that  moment  the  light  went  out.  They  heard  a 
quick  movement  on  the  officer's  part  and  the  thud  of  the 
light-stick  on  the  ground.  Both  Billy  and  the  constable 
fumbled  for  it,  but  Billy  found  it  and  flashed  it  on  the 
other.  They  saw  a  gray-bearded  man  clad  in  streaming 
oilskins.  He  was  an  old  man,  and  reminded  Saxon  of 
the  sort  she  had  been  used  to  see  in  Grand  Army  proces- 
sions on  Decoration  Day. 

"Give  me  that  stick,"  he  ballied. 

Billy  sneered  a  refusal. 


356  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

"Then  I'll  put  a  hole  through  you,  by  criminy." 

He  leveled  the  revolver  directly  at  Billy,  whoss 
thumb  on  the  switch  did  not  waver,  and  they  could  see 
the  gleaming  bullet-tips  in  the  chambers  of  the  cylin- 
der. 

"Why,  you  whiskery  old  skunk,  you  ain't  got  the  grit 
to  shoot  sour  apples,"  was  Billy's  answer.  "I  know  your 
[kind — brave  as  lions  when  it  comes  to  pullin'  miserable, 
'broken-spirited  bindle  stiffs,  but  as  leary  as  a  yellow  dog 
when  you  face  a  man.  Pull  that  trigger !  Why,  you  pusil- 
lanimous piece  of  dirt,  you'd  run  with  your  tail  between 
your  legs  if  I  said  boo ! ' ' 

Suiting  action  to  the  word,  Billy  let  out  an  explosive 
'"BOO!"  and  Saxon  giggled  involuntarily  at  the  startle  it 
caused  in  the  constable. 

"I'll  give  you  a  last  chance,"  the  latter  grated  through 
his  teeth.  "Turn  over  that  light-stick  an'  come  along 
peaceable,  or  I'll  lay  you  out." 

Saxon  was  frightened  for  Billy's  sake,  and  yet  only 
half  frightened.  She  had  a  faith  that  the  man  dared  not 
fire,  and  she  felt  the  old  familiar  thrills  of  admiration  for 
Billy's  courage.  She  could  not  see  his  face,  but  she  knew 
in  all  certitude  that  it  was  bleak  and  passionless  in  the 
terrifying  way  she  had  seen  it  when  he  fought  the  three 
Irishmen. 

"You  ain't  the  first  man  I  killed,"  the  constable 
threatened.  "I'm  an  old  soldier,  an'  I  ain't  squeamish 

over  blood " 

i  "And  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,"  Saxon 
'oroke  in,  "trying  to  shame  and  disgrace  peaceable  people 
who've  done  no  wrong." 

"You've  done  wrong  sleepin'  here,"  was  his  vindica- 
tion. "This  ain't  your  property.  It's  agin  the  law.  An' 
folks  that  go  agin  the  law  go  to  jail,  as  the  two  of  you'll 
go.  I  've  sent  many  a  tramp  up  for  thirty  days  for  sleepin ' 
in  this  very  shack.  Why,  it's  a  regular  trap  for  'em.  I 
got  a  good  glimpse  of  your  faces  an'  could  see  you  waa 
tough  characters."  He  turned  on  Billy.  "I've  fooled 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     357 

enough  with  you.  Are  you  goin'  to  give  in  an'  come 
peaceable?" 

"I'm  goin'  to  tell  you  a  couple  of  things,  old  hoss," 
Billy  answered.  "Number  one:  you  ain't  goin'  to  pull 
us.  Number  two :  we  're  goin '  to  sleep  the  night  out  here. ' ' 

"Gimme  that  light-stick,"  the  constable  demanded  per- 
emptorily. 

"G'wan,  Whiskers.  You're  standin'  on  your  foot.  Beat 
it.  Pull  your  freight.  As  for  your  torch  you'll  find  it 
outside  in  the  mud." 

Billy  shifted  the  light  until  it  illuminated  the  doorway, 
and  then  threw  the  stick  as  he  would  pitch  a  baseball. 
They  were  now  in  total  darkness,  and  they  could  hear  the 
intruder  gritting  his  teeth  in  rage. 

"Now  start  your  shootin'  an'  see  what '11  happen  to 
you,"  Billy  advised  menacingly. 

Saxon  felt  for  Billy's  hand  and  squeezed  it  proudly. 
The  constable  grumbled  some  threat. 

"What's  that?"  Billy  demanded  sharply.  "Ain't  you 
gone  yet?  Now  listen  to  me,  Whiskers.  I've  put  up  with 
all  your  shenanigan  I'm  goin'  to.  Now  get  out  or  I'll 
throw  you  out.  An'  if  you  come  monkeyin'  around  here 
again  you'll  get  yours.  Now  get!" 

So  great  was  the  roar  of  the  storm  that  they  could  hear 
nothing.  Billy  rolled  a  cigarette.  When  he  lighted  it, 
they  saw  the  barn  was  empty.  Billy  chuckled. 

"Say,  I  was  so  mad  I  clean  forgot  my  run-around.  It's 
only  just  beginnin'  to  tune  up  again." 

Saxon  made  him  lie  down  and  receive  her  soothing  min-' 
istrations. 

' '  There  is  no  use  moving  till  morning, ' '  she  said.  ' '  Then, 
just  as  soon  as  it's  light,  we'll  catch  a  car  into  San  Jose, 
rent  a  room,  get  a  hot  breakfast,  and  go  to  a  drug  store 
for  the  proper  stuff  for  poulticing  or  whatever  treatment's 
needed." 

"But  Benson,"  Billy  demurred. 

"I'll  telephone  him  from  town.  It  will  only  cost  five 
cents.  I  saw  he  had  a  wire.  And  you  couldn't  plow  on 


358  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

account  of  the  rain,  even  if  your  finger  was  well.  Be- 
sides, we'll  both  be  mending  together.  My  heel  will  be 
all  right  by  the  time  it  clears  up  and  we  can  start  travel- 
ing." 


CHAPTER  V 

EARLY  on  Monday  morning,  three  days  later,  Saxon  and 
Billy  took  an  electric  car  to  the  end  of  the  line,  and 
started  a  second  time  for  San  Juan.  Puddles  were  stand- 
ing in  the  road,  but  the  sun  shone  from  a  blue  sky,  and 
everywhere,  on  the  ground,  was  a  faint  hint  of  budding 
green.  At  Benson's  Saxon  waited  while  Billy  went  in  to 
get  his  six  dollars  for  the  three  days'  plowing. 

"Kicked  like  a  steer  because  I  was  quitting' '  he  told  hei1 
when  he  came  back.  "He  wouldn't  listen  at  first.  Said 
he'd  put  me  to  drivin'  in  a  few  days,  an'  that  there 
wasn't  enough  good  four-horse  men  to  let  one  go  easily." 

"And  what  did  you  say?" 

"Oh,  I  just  told  'm  I  had  to  be  movin'  along.  An' 
when  he  tried  to  argue  I  told  'm  my  wife  was  with  me, 
an'  she  was  blamed  anxious  to  get  along." 

"But  so  are  you,  Billy." 

* '  Sure,  Pete ;  but  just  the  same  I  wasn  't  as  keen  as  you. 
Doggone  it,  I  was  gettin'  to  like  that  plowin'.  I'll  never 
be  scairt  to  ask  for  a  job  at  it  again.  I've  got  to  where 
I  savvy  the  burro,  an'  you  bet  I  can  plow  against  most  of 
'm  right  now." 

An  hour  afterward,  with  a  good  three  miles  to  their 
credit,  they  edged  to  the  side  of  the  road  at  the  sound  of 
an  automobile  behind  them.  But  the  machine  did  not 
pass.  Benson  was  alone  in  it,  and  he  came  to  a  stop 
alongside. 

"Where  are  you  bound?"  he  inquired  of  Billy,  with  a 
quick,  measuring  glance  at  Saxon. 

"Monterey — if  you're  goin'  that  far,"  Billy  answered 
with  a  chuckle. 

"I  can  give  you  a  lift  as  far  as  Watsonville-    It  would 


360  THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

take  you  several  days  on  shank's  mare  with  those  loads. 
Climb  in."  He  addressed  Saxon  directly.  "Do  you  want 
to  ride  in  front?" 

Saxon  glanced  to  Billy. 

"Go  on,"  he  approved.  "It's  fine  in  front.  This  is 

my  wife,  Mr.  Benson — Mrs.  Roberts." 

"Oh,  ho,  so  you're  the  one  that  took  your  husband  away 
from  me,"  Benson  accused  good  humoredly,  as  he  tucked 
the  robe  around  her. 

Saxon  shouldered  the  responsibility  and  became  ab- 
sorbed in  watching  him  start  the  car. 

"I'd  be  a  mighty  poor  farmer  if  I  owned  no  more  land 
than  you'd  plowed  before  you  came  to  me,"  Benson,  with 
a  twinkling  eye,  jerked  over  his  shoulder  to  Billy. 

"I'd  never  had  my  hands  on  a  plow  but  once  before," 
Billy  confessed.  "But  a  fellow  has  to  learn  some  time." 

"At  two  dollars  a  day!" 

"If  he  can  get  some  alfalfa  artist  to  put  up  for  it," 
Billy  met  him  complacently. 

Benson  laughed  heartily. 

"You're  a  quick  learner,"  he  complimented.  "I  could 
see  that  you  and  plows  weren't  on  speaking  acquaintance. 
But  you  took  hold  right.  There  isn't  one  man  in  ten  I 
could  hire  off  the  county  road  that  could  do  as  well  as 
you  were  doing  on  the  third  day.  But  your  big  asset  is 
that  you  know  horses.  It  was  half  a  joke  when  I  told 
you  to  take  the  lines  that  morning.  You're  a  trained 
horseman  and  a  born  horseman  as  well." 

"He's  very  gentle  with  horses,"  Saxon  said. 

"But  there's  more  than  that  to  it,"  Benson  took  her 
'up.  "Your  husband's  got  the  way  with  him.  It's  hard 
to  explain.  But  that's  what  it  is — the  way.  It's  an  in- 
stinct almost.  Kindness  is  necessary,  But  grip  is  more 
so.  Your  husband  grips  his  horses.  Take  the  test  I  gave 
him  with  the  four-horse  load.  It  was  too  complicated  and 
severe.  Kindness  couldn't  have  done  it.  It  took  grip. 
I  could  see  it  the  moment  he  started.  There  wasn't  any 
doubt  in  his  mind.  There  wasn't  any  doubt  in  the  horses. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     361 

They  got  the  feel  of  him.  They  just  knew  the  thing  was 
going  to  be  done  and  that  it  was  up  to  them  to  do  it. 
They  didn't  have  any  fear,  but  just  the  same  they  knew 
the  boss  was  in  the  seat.  "When  he  took  hold  of  those 
lines,  he  took  hold  of  the  horses.  He  gripped  them,  don't 
you  see.  He  picked  them  up  and  put  them  where  he 
wanted  them,  swung  them  up  and  down  and  right  and 
left,  made  them  pull,  and  slack,  and  back — and  they  knewi 
everything  was  going  to  come  out  right.  Oh,  horses  may) 
be  stupid,  but  they're  not  altogether  fools.  They  know 
when  the  proper  horseman  has  hold  of  them,  though  how 
they  know  it  so  quickly  is  beyond  me." 

Benson  paused,  half  vexed  at  his  volubility,  and  gazed 
keenly  at  Saxon  to  see  if  she  had  followed  him.  What 
he  saw  in  her  face  and  eyes  satisfied  him,  and  he  added, 
with  a  short  laugh: 

"Horseflesh  is  a  hobby  of  mine.  Don't  think  otherwise 
because  I  am  running  a  stink  engine.  I'd  rather  be 
streaking  along  here  behind  a  pair  of  fast-steppers.  But 
I'd  lose  time  on  them,  and,  worse  than  that,  I'd  be  too 
anxious  about  them  all  the  time.  As  for  this  thing,  why,  it 
has  no  nerves,  no  delicate  joints  nor  tendons;  it's  a  case 
of  let  her  rip." 

The  miles  flew  past  and  Saxon  was  soon  deep  in  talk 
with  her  host.  Here  again,  she  discerned  immediately,  was 
a  type  of  the  new  farmer.  The  knowledge  she  had  picked 
ap  enabled  her  to  talk  to  advantage,  and  when  Benson 
calked  she  was  amazed  that  she  could  understand  so  much./ 
[n  response  to  his  direct  querying,  she  told  him  her  and 
Billy's  plans,  sketching  the  Oakland  life  vaguely,  and 
Iwelling  on  their  future  intentions. 

Almost  as  in  a  dream,  when  they  passed  the  nurseries  at 
Morgan  Hill,  she  learned  they  had  come  twenty  miles, 
and  realized  that  it  was  a  longer  stretch  than  they  had 
planned  to  walk  that  day.  And  still  the  machine  hummed 
on,  eating  up  the  distance  as  ever  it  flashed  into  view. 

"I  wondered  what  so  good  a  man  as  your  husband  was 
doing  on  the  road,"  Benson  told  her. 


362  THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

"Yes/'  she  smiled.  "He  said  you  said  he  must  be  a 
good  man  gone  wrong." 

"But  you  see,  I  didn't  know  about  you.  Now  I  under- 
stand. Though  I  must  say  it's  extraordinary  in  these 
days  for  a  young  couple  like  you  to  pack  your  blankets 
in  search  of  land.  And,  before  I  forget  it,  I  want  to  tell 
you  one  thing."  He  turned  to  Billy.  "I  am  just  telling 
your  wife  that  there's  an  all-the-year  job  waiting  for  you 
on  my  ranch.  And  there's  a  tight  little  cottage  of  three 
rooms  the  two  of  you  can  housekeep  in.  Don't  forget." 

Among  other  things  Saxon  discovered  that  Benson  had 
gone  through  the  College  of  Agriculture  at  the  University 
of  California — a  branch  of  learning  she  had  not  known 
existed.  He  gave  her  small  hope  in  her  search  for  gov- 
ernment land. 

"The  only  government  land  left,"  he  informed  her, 
"is  what  is  not  good  enough  to  take  up  for  one  reason  or 
another.  If  it's  good  land  down  there  whera  you're  going, 
then  the  market  is  inaccessible.  I  know  no  railroads  tap 
in  there." 

"Wait  till  we  strike  Pajaro  Valley,"  he  said,  when  they 
had  passed  Gilroy  and  were  booming  on  toward  Sargent's. 
"I'll  show  you  what  can  be  done  with  the  soil — and  not 
by  cow-college  graduates  but  by  uneducated  foreigners 
that  the  high  and  mighty  American  has  always  sneered  at. 
I'll  show  you.  It's  one  of  the  most  wonderful  demonstra- 
tions in  the  state." 

At  Sargent's  he  left  them  in  the  machine  a  few  minutes 
while  he  transacted  business. 

"Whew!  It  beats  hikin',"  Billy  said.  "The  day's 
young  yet  and  when  he  drops  us  we'll  be  fresh  for  a 
few  miles  on  our  own.  Just  the  same,  when  we  get  settled 
an'  well  off,  I  guess  I'll  stick  by  horses.  They'll  always 
be  good  enough  for  me." 

"A  machine's  only  good  to  get  somewhere  in  a  hurry," 
Saxon  agreed.  "Of  course,  if  we  got  very,  very  rich " 

"Say,  Saxon,"  Billy  broke  in.  suddenly  struck  with  an 
idea.  "I've  learned  one  thing.  I  ain't  afraid  any  more 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     303 

of  not  gettin'  work  in  the  country.  I  was  at  first,  but  I 
didn't  tell  you.  Just  the  same  I  was  dead  leary  when 
we  pulled  out  on  the  San  Leandro  pike.  An'  here,  already, 
is  two  places  open — Mrs.  Mortimer's  an'  Benson's;  an' 
steady  jobs,  too.  Yep,  a  man  can  get  work  in  the  coun- 
try." 

"Ah,"  Saxon  amended,  with  a  proud  little  smile,  "you 
haven't  said  it  right.  Any  good  man  can  get  work  in 
the  country.  The  big  farmers  don't  hire  men  out  of 
charity." 

"Sure;  they  ain't  in  it  for  their  health,"  he  grinned. 

"And  they  jump  at  you.  That's  because  you  are  a 
good  man.  They  can  see  it  with  half  an  eye.  Why, 
Billy,  take  all  the  working  tramps  we've  met  on  the  road 
already.  There  wasn't  one  to  compare  with  you.  I  looked 
them  over.  They're  all  weak — weak  in  their  bodies,  weak 
in  their  heads,  weak  both  ways." 

"Yep,  they  are  a  pretty  measly  bunch,"  Billy  admitted 
modestly. 

"It's  the  wrong  time  of  the  year  to  see  Pajaro  Valley," 
Benson  said,  when  he  again  sat  beside  Saxon  and  Sargent's 
was  a  thing  of  the  past.  "Just  the  same,  it's  worth  seeing 
any  time.  Think  of  it — twelve  thousand  acres  of  apples! 
Do  you  know  what  they  call  Pajaro  Valley  now?  New 
Dalmatia.  We're  being  squeezed  out.  We  Yankees 
thought  we  were  smart.  Well,  the  Dalmatians  came  along 
and  showed  they  were  smarter.  They  were  miserable  im- 
migrants— poorer  than  Job's  turkey.  First,  they  worked 
at  day's  labor  in  the  fruit  harvest.  Next  they  began,  in 
a  small  way,  buying  the  apples  on  the  trees.  The  more 
money  they  made  the  bigger  became  their  deals.  Pretty 
soon  they  were  renting  the  orchards  on  long  leases.  And 
now,  they  are  beginning  to  buy  the  land.  It  won't  be 
long  before  they  own  the  whole  valley,  and  the  last  Ameri- 
can will  be  gone. 

"Oh,  our  smart  Yankees!  Why,  those  first  ragged 
Slavs  in  their  first  little  deals  with  us  only  made  some- 
thing like  two  and  three  thousand  per  cent,  profits.  And 


364  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

now  they're  satisfied  to  make  a  hundred  per  cent.  It's  a 
calamity  if  their  profits  sink  to  twenty-five  or  fifty  per 
cent." 

"It's  like  San  Leandro,"  Saxon  said.  "The  original 
owners  of  the  land  are  about  all  gone  already.  It's  inten- 
sive cultivation."  She  liked  that  phrase.  "It  isn't  a  case 
.of  having  a  lot  of  acres,  but  of  how  much  they  can  get 
out  of  one  acre." 

"Yes,  and  more  than  that,"  Benson  answered,  nodding 
his  head  emphatically.  "Lots  of  them,  like  Luke  Scurich, 
are  in  it  on  a  large  scale.  Several  of  them  are  worth  a 
quarter  of  a  million  already.  I  know  ten  of  them  who  will 
average  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  each.  They  have 
a  way  with  apples.  It's  almost  a  gift.  They  know  trees 
in  much  the  same  way  your  husband  knows  horses.  Each 
tree  is  just  as  much  an  individual  to  them  as  a  horse  is 
to  me.  They  know  each  tree,  its  whole  history,  everything 
that  ever  happened  to  it,  its  every  idiosyncrasy.  They 
have  their  fingers  on  its  pulse.  They  can  tell  if  it 's  feeling 
as  well  to-day  as  it  felt  yesterday.  And  if  it  isn't,  they 
know  why  and  proceed  to  remedy  matters  for  it.  They 
can  look  at  a  tree  in  bloom  and  tell  how  many  boxes  of 
apples  it  will  pack,  and  not  only  that — they'll  know  what 
the  quality  and  grades  of  those  apples  are  going  to  be. 
Why,  they  know  each  individual  apple,  and  they  pick  it 
tenderly,  with  love,  never  hurting  it,  and  pack  it  and  ship 
it  tenderly  and  with  love,  and  when  it  arrives  at  market, 
it  isn't  bruised  nor  rotten,  and  it  fetches  top  price. 

"Yes,  it's  more  than  intensive.  These  Adriatic  Slavs 
are  long-headed  in  business.  Not  only  can  they  grow 
apples,  but  they  can  sell  apples.  No  market?  What  does 
it  matter?  Make  a  market.  That's  their  way,  while  our 
kind  let  the  crops  rot  knee-deep  under  the  trees.  Look  at 
Peter  Mengol.  Every  year  he  goes  to  England,  and  he 
takes  a  hundred  carloads  of  yellow  Newton  pippins  with 
him.  Why,  those  Dalmatians  are  showing  Pajaro  apples 
on  the  South  African  market  right  now,  and  coining  money 
out  of  it  hand  over  fist." 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      365 

"What  do  they  do  with  all  the  money?"  Saxon  queried. 

"Buy  the  Americans  of  Pajaro  Valley  out,  of  course,  aa 
they  are  already  doing." 

' '  And  then  ? "  she  questioned. 

Benson  looked  at  her  quickly. 

"Then  they'll  start  buying  the  Americans  out  of  some 
p  other  valley.  And  the  Americans  will  spend  the  money 
and  by  the  second  generation  start  rotting  in  the  cities, 
as  you  and  your  husband  would  have  rotted  if  you  hadn't 
got  out." 

Saxon  could  not  repress  a  shudder.    As  Mary  had 

rotted,  she  thought;  as  Bert  and  all  the  rest  had  rotted; 
as  Tom  and  all  the  rest  Avere  rotting. 

"Oh,  it's  a  great  country,"  Benson  was  continuing. 
"But  we're  not  a  great  people.  Kipling  is  right.  We're 
crowded  out  and  sitting  on  the  stoop.  And  the  worst  of 
it  is  there's  no  reason  we  shouldn't  know  better.  We're 
teaching  it  in  all  our  agricultural  colleges,  experiment  sta- 
tions, and  demonstration  trains.  But  the  people  won 't  take 
hold,  and  the  immigrant,  who  has  learned  in  a  hard  school, 
beats  them  out.  Why,  after  I  graduated,  and  before  my 
father  died — he  was  of  the  old  school  and  laughed  at  what 
he  called  my  theories — I  traveled  for  a  couple  of  years. 
J  wanted  to  see  how  the  old  countries  farmed.  Oh,  I 
saw. 

" We  '11  soon  enter  the  valley.    You  bet  I  saw.    First 

thing,  in  Japan,  the  terraced  hillsides.  Take  a  hill  so" 
steep  you  couldn't  drive  a  horse  up  it.  No  bother  to  them. 
They  terraced  it — a  stone  wall,  and  good  masonry,  six 
^feet  high,  a  level  terrace  six  feet  wide ;  up  and  up,  walls  and 
'terraces,  the  same  thing  all  the  way,  straight  into  the  air, 
walls  upon  walls,  terraces  upon  terraces,  until  I've  seen 
ten- foot  walls  built  to  make  three-foot  terraces,  and  twenty- 
foot  walls  for  four  or  five  feet  of  soil  they  could  grow 
things  on.  And  that  soil,  packed  up  the  mountainsides  in 
baskets  on  their  backs! 

"Same  thing  everywhere  I  went,  in  Greece,  in  Ireland, 
in  Dalmatia — I  went  there,  too.  They  went  around  and 


866  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

gathered  every  bit  of  soil  they  could  find,  gleaned  it  and 
even  stole  it  by  the  shovelful  or  handful,  and  carried  it 
up  the  mountains  on  their  backs  and  built  farms — built 
them,  made  them,  on  the  naked  rock.  Why,  in  France, 
I've  seen  hill  peasants  mining  their  stream-beds  for  soil 
as  our  fathers  mined  the  streams  of  California  for  gold. 
Only  our  gold's  gone,  and  the  peasants'  soil  remains,  turn- 
ing over  and  over,  doing  something,  growing  something, 
all  the  time.  Now,  I  guess  I  '11  hush. ' ' 

"My  God!"  Billy  muttered  in  awe-stricken  tones.  "Our 
folks  never  done  that.  No  wonder  they  lost  out." 

"There's  the  valley  now,"  Benson  said.  "Look  at  those 
trees!  Look  at  those  hillsides!  That's  New  Dalmatia. 
Look  at  it !  An  apple  paradise !  Look  at  that  soil !  Look 
at  the  way  it's  worked!" 

It  was  not  a  large  valley  that  Saxon  saw.  But  every- 
where, across  the  fiat-lands  and  up  the  low  rolling  hills, 
the  industry  of  the  Dalmatians  was  evident.  As  she  looked 
she  listened  to  Benson. 

"Do  you  know  what  the  old  settlers  did  with  this  beau- 
tiful soil?  Planted  the  flats  in  grain  and  pastured  cattle 
on  the  hills.  And  now  twelve  thousand  acres  of  it  are 
in  apples.  It 's  a  regular  show  place  for  the  Eastern  guests 
at  Del  Monte,  who  run  out  here  in  their  machines  to  see 
the  trees  in  bloom  or  fruit.  Take  Matteo  Lettunich — he's 
one  of  the  originals.  Entered  through  Castle  Garden  and 
became  a  dish-washer.  When  he  laid  eyes  on  this  valley  he 
knew  it  was  his  Klondike.  To-day  he  leases  seven  hundred 
acres  and  owns  a  hundred  and  thirty  of  his  own — the  fin- 
est orchard  in  the  valley,  and  he  packs  from  forty  to  fifty 
thousand  boxes  of  export  apples  from  it  every  year.  And 
he  won't  let  a  soul  but  a  Dalmatian  pick  a  single  apple  of 
all  those  apples.  One  day,  in  a  banter,  I  asked  him  what 
he'd  sell  his  hundred  arid  thirty  acres  for.  He  answered 
seriously.  He  told  me  what  it  had  netted  him,  year  by 
year,  and  struck  an  average.  He  told  me  to  calculate  the 
principal  from  that  at  six  per  cent.  I  did.  It  came  to 
over  three  thousand  dollars  an  acre." 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     36t 

"What  are  all  the  Chinks  doin'  in  the  Valley?"  Billy 
asked.  "Growin'  apples,  too?" 

Benson  shook  his  head. 

"But  that's  another  point  where  we  Americans  lose 
out.  There  isn't  anything  wasted  in  this  valley,  not  a 
core  nor  a  paring;  and  it  isn't  the  Americans  who  do  the 
saving.  There  are  fifty-seven  apple-evaporating  furnaces, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  apple  canneries  and  cider  and  vine- 
gar factories.  And  Mr.  John  Chinaman  owns  them.  They 
ship  fifteen  thousand  barrels  of  cider  and  vinegar  each 
year." 

"It  was  our  folks  that  made  this  country,"  Billy  re- 
flected. "Fought  for  it,  opened  it  up,  did  everything " 

"But  develop  it,"  Benson  caught  him  up.  "We  did 
our  best  to  destroy  it,  as  we  destroyed  the  soil  of  New 
England."  He  waved  his  hand,  indicating  some  place 
beyond  the  hills.  "Salinas  lies  over  that  way.  If  you 
went  through  there  you'd  think  you  were  in  Japan.  And 
more  than  one  fat  little  fruit  valley  in  California  has  been 
taken  over  by  the  Japanese.  Their  method  is  somewhat 
different  from  the  Dalmatians'.  First  they  drift  in  fruit- 
picking  at  day's  wages.  They  give  better  satisfaction  than 
the  American  fruit-pickers,  too,  and  the  Yankee  grower  ia 
glad  to  get  them.  Next,  as  they  get  stronger,  they  form 
in  Japanese  unions  and  proceed  to  run  the  American 
labor  out.  Still  the  fruit-growers  are  satisfied.  The  next 
step  is  when  the  Japs  won't  pick.  The  American  labor 
is  gone.  The  fruit-grower  is  helpless.  The  crop  perishes. 
Then  in  step  the  Jap  labor  bosses.  They're  the  masters 
ilready.  They  contract  for  the  crop.  The  fruit-growers 
are  at  their  mercy,  you  see.  Pretty  soon  the  Japs  are 
running  the  valley.  The  fruit-growers  have  become  ab- 
sentee landlords  and  are  busy  learning  higher  standards 
of  living  in  the  cities  or  making  trips  to  Europe.  Ee- 
mains  only  one  more  step.  The  Japs  buy  them  out. 
They've  got  to  sell,  for  the  Japs  control  the  labor  market 
and  could  bankrupt  them  at  will." 

"But  If  this  goes  on,  what  is  left  for  us?"  asked  Saxon. 


368  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

"What  is  happening.  Those  of  us  who  haven't  any- 
thing rot  in  the  cities.  Those  of  us  who  have  land,  sell  it 
and  go  to  the  cities.  Some  become  larger  capitalists ;  some 
go  into  the  professions;  the  rest  spend  the  money  and 
start  rotting  when  it's  gone,  and  if  it  lasts  their  life-time 
their  children  do  the  rotting  for  them." 

Their  long  ride  was  soon  over,  and  at  parting  Benson 
reminded  Billy  of  the  steady  job  that  awaited  him  any/ 
time  he  gave  the  word. 

"I  guess  we'll  take  a  peep  at  that  government  land 
first,"  Billy  answered.  "Don't  know  what  we'll  settle 
down  to,  but  there's  one  thing  sure  we  won't  tackle." 

"What's  that?" 

"Start  in  apple-growin '  at  three  thousan'  dollars  an 
acre." 

Billy  and  Saxon,  their  packs  upon  their  backs,  trudged 
along  a  hundred  yards.  He  was  the  first  to  break  silence. 

"An*  I  tell  you  another  thing,  Saxon.  We'll  never  be 
goin'  around  smellin'  out  an'  swipin'  bits  of  soil  an' 
carryin'  it  up  a  hill  in  a  basket.  The  United  States  is 
big  yet.  I  don't  care  what  Benson  or  any  of  'em  says, 
the  United  States  ain't  played  out.  There's  millions 
of  acres  untouched  an'  waitin',  an'  it's  up  to  us  to  find 
'em." 

"And  111  tell  you  one  thing,"  Saxon  said.  "We're 
getting  an  education.  Tom  was  raised  on  a  ranch,  yet 
he  doesn't  know  right  now  as  much  about  farming  condi- 
tions as  we  do.  And  I'll  tell  you  another  thing.  The, 
more  I  think  of  it,  the  more  it  seems  we  are  going  to  be 
disappointed  about  that  government  land." 

"Ain't  no  use  believin'  what  everybody  tells  you,"  he 
protested. 

"Oh,  it  isn't  that.  It's  what  I  think.  I  leave  it  to 
you.  If  this  land  around  here  is  worth  three  thousand  an 
acre,  why  is  it  that  government  land,  if  it's  any  good,  is 
waiting  there,  only  a  short  way  off,  to  be  taken  for  the 


Billy  pondered  this  for  a  quarter  cf  &  mile,  but  could 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      369 

come  to  no  conclusion.    At  last  he  cleared  his  throat  and 

remarked : 

''Well,  we  can  wait  till  we  see  it  first,  can't  we?" 
"All  right,"  Saxon  agreed.    "We'll  wait  till  we  see  it' 


CHAPTER  Vl 

THEY  had  taken  the  direct  county  road  across  the  hills 
from  Monterey,  instead  of  the  Seventeen  Mile  Drive 
around  by  the  coast,  so  that  Carmel  Bay  came  upon  them 
without  any  fore- glimmerings  of  its  beauty.  Dropping 
down  through  the  pungent  pines,  they  passed  woods-em- 
bowered cottages,  quaint  and  rustic,  of  artists  and  writers, 
and  went  on  across  wind-blown  rolling  sandhills  held  t* 
place  by  sturdy  lupins  and  nodding  with  pale  California 
poppies.  Saxon  screamed  in  sudden  wonder  of  delight, 
then  caught  her  breath  and  gazed  at  the  amazing  peacock- 
blue  of  a  breaker,  shot  through  with  golden  sunlight,  over- 
falling  in  a  mile-long  sweep  and  thundering  into  white 
ruin  of  foam  on  a  crescent  beach  of  sand  scarcely  less 
white. 

How  long  they  stood  and  watched  the  stately  procession 
of  breakers,  rising  from  out  the  deep  and  wind-capped  sea 
to  froth  and  thunder  at  their  feet,  Saxon  did  not  know. 
She  was  recalled  to  herself  when  Billy,  laughing,  tried 
to  remove  the  telescope  basket  from  her  shoulders. 

"You  kind  of  look  as  though  you  was  goin'  to  stop  a 
while,"  he  said.  "So  we  might  as  well  get  comfortable." 

"I  never  dreamed  it,  I  never  dreamed  it,"  she  repeated, 
with  passionately  clasped  hands.  "I  .  .  .  I  thought 
the  surf  at  the  Cliff  House  was  wonderful,  but  it  gave  no 

idea  of  this.    Oh!  Look!  LOOK!     Did  you  ever  see 

such  an  unspeakable  color?     And  the  sunlight  flashing 
right  through  it !    Oh!    Oh!     Oh!" 

At  last  she  was  able  to  take  her  eyes  from  the  surf  and 
gaze  at  the  sea-horizon  of  deepest  peacock-blue  and  piled 
with  cloud-masses,  at  the  curve  of  the  beach  south  to  the 
jagged  point  of  rocks,  and  at  the  rugged  blue  mountains 
seen  across  soft  low  hills,  landward,  up  Carmel  Valley. 
370, 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     371 

"Might  as  well  sit  down  an'  take  it  easy,"  Billy  in- 
dulged her.  "This  is  too  good  to  want  to  run  away  from 
all  at  once." 

Saxon  assented,  but  began  immediately  to  unlace  her 
shoes. 

"You  ain't  a-goin'  to?"  Billy  asked  in  surprised  de- 
light, then  began  unlacing  his  own. 

But  before  they  were  ready  to  run  barefooted  on  the 
perilous  fringe  of  cream-wet  sand  where  land  and  ocean 
met,  a  new  and  wonderful  thing  attracted  their  attention. 
Down  from  the  dark  pines  and  across  the  sandhills  ran  a 
man,  naked  save  for  narrow  trunks.  He  was  smooth  and 
rosy-skinned,  cherubic-faced,  with  a  thatch  of  curly  yellow 
hair,  but  his  body  was  hugely  thewed  as  a  Hercules'. 

' '  Gee ! — must  be  Sandow, ' '  Billy  muttered  low  to  Saxon. 

But  she  was  thinking  of  the  engraving  in  her  mother's 
scrapbook  and  of  the  Vikings  on  the  wet  sands  of  Eng- 
land. 

The  runner  passed  them  a  dozen  feet  away,  crossed  the 
wet  sand,  never  pausing,  till  the  froth  wash  was  to  his 
knees  while  above  him,  ten  feet  at  least,  upreared  a  wall 
of  overtopping  water.  Huge  and  powerful  as  his  body 
had  seemed,  it  was  now  white  and  fragile  in  the  face  of 
that  imminent,  great-handed  buffet  of  the  sea.  Saxon 
gasped  with  anxiety,  and  she  stole  a  look  at  Billy  to  note 
that  he  was  tense  with  watching. 

But  the  stranger  sprang  to  meet  the  blow,  and,  just  when 
it  seemed  he  must  be  crushed,  he  dived  into  the  face  of 
the  breaker  and  disappeared.  The  mighty  mass  of  water 
fell  in  thunder  on  the  beach,  but  beyond  appeared  a  yellow 
head,  one  arm  out-reaching,  and  a  portion  of  a  shoulder. 
Only  a  few  strokes  was  he  able  to  make  ere  he  was  com- 
pelled to  dive  through  another  breaker.  This  was  the  bat- 
tle— to  win  seaward  against  the  sweep  of  the  shoreward- 
hastening  sea.  Each  time  he  dived  and  was  lost  to  view 
Saxon  caught  her  breath  and  clenched  her  hands.  Some- 
times, after  the  passage  of  a  breaker,  they  could  not  find 
him,  and  when  they  did  he  would  be  scores  of  feet  away, 


372  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

flung  there  like  a  chip  by  a  smoke-bearded  breaker.  Often 
it  seemed  he  must  fail  and  be  thrown  upon  the  beach,  but 
at  the  end  of  half  an  hour  he  was  beyond  the  outer  edge  of 
the  surf  and  swimming  strong,  no  longer  diving,  but  top- 
ping the  waves.  Soon  he  was  so  far  away  that  only  at 
intervals  could  they  find  the  speck  of  him.  That,  too, 
vanished,  and  Saxon  and  Billy  looked  at  each  other,  she, 
with  amazement  at  the  swimmer's  valor,  Billy  with  blue* 
eyes  flashing. 

"Some  swimmer,  that  boy,  some  swimmer,"  he  pr&ised. 

"Nothing  chicken-hearted  about  him.  Say,  I  only 

know  tank-swimmin',  an'  bay-swimmin ',  but  now  I'm  goin' 
to  learn  ocean-swimmin '.  If  I  could  do  that  I'd  be  so 
proud  you  couldn't  come  within  forty  feet  of  me.  Why, 
Saxon,  honest  to  God,  I'd  sooner  do  what  he  done  than 
own  a  thousan'  farms.  Oh,  I  can  swim,  too,  I'm  tellin' 
you,  like  a  fish — I  swum,  one  Sunday,  from  the  Narrow 
Gauge  Pier  to  Sessions'  Basin,  an'  that's  miles — but  I 
never  seen  anything  like  that  guy  in  the  swimmin'  line. 
An'  I'm  not  goin'  to  leave  this  beach  until  he  comes  back. 

All  by  his  lonely  out  there  in  a  mountain  se&,  think  of 

it!  He's  got  his  nerve  all  right,  all  right." 

Saxon  and  Billy  ran  barefooted  up  and  down  the  beach, 
pursuing  each  other  with  brandished  snakes  of  seaweed 
and  playing  like  children  for  an  hour.  It  was  not  until 
they  were  putting  on  their  shoes  that  they  sighted  the 
yellow  head  bearing  shoreward.  Billy  was  at  the  edge  of 
the  surf  to  meet  him,  emerging,  not  white-skinned  as  he 
had  entered,  but  red  from  the  pounding  he  had  received 
at  the  hands  of  the  sea. 

"You're  a  wonder,  and  I  just  got  to  hand  it  to  you," 
Billy  greeted  him  in  outspoken  admiration. 

"It  was  a  big  surf  to-day,"  the  young  man  replied, 
with  a  nod  of  acknowledgment. 

"It  don't  happen  that  you  are  a  fignter  I  never  heard 
of?"  Billy  queried,  striving  to  get  some  inkling  of  the 
identity  of  the  physical  prodigy. 

The  other  laughed  and  shook  his  head,  and  Billy  could 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     373 

not  guess  that  he  was  an  ex-captain  of  a  'Varsity  Eleven, 
and  incidentally  the  father  of  a  family  and  the  author  of 
many  books.  He  looked  Billy  over  with  an  eye  trained 
in  measuring  freshmen  aspirants  for  the  gridiron. 

"You're  some  body  of  a  man,"  he  appreciated.  "You'd 
strip  with  the  best  of  them.  Am  I  right  in  guessing  that 
you  know  your  way  about  in  the  ring?" 

Billy  nodded.     "My  name's  Roberts." 

The  swimmer  scowled  with  a  futile  effort  at  recollec- 
tion. 

"Bill— Bill  Roberts,"  Billy  supplemented. 

"Oh,  ho !— Not  Big  Bill  Roberts?  Why,  I  saw  you  fight, 
before  the  earthquake,  in  the  Mechanic's  Pavilion.  It 
was  a  preliminary  to  Eddie  Hanlon  and  some  other  fel- 
low. You're  a  two-handed  fighter,  I  remember  that,  with 
an  awful  wallop,  but  slow.  Yes,  I  remember,  you  were 
slow  that  night,  but  you  got  your  man."  He  put  out  a 
wet  hand.  "My  name's  Hazard — Jim  Hazard." 

"An'  if  you're  the  football  coach  that  was,  a  couple  of 
years  ago,  I've  read  about  you  in  the  papers.  Am  I 
right?" 

They  shook  hands  heartily,  and  Saxon  was  introduced. 
She  felt  very  small  beside  the  two  young  giants,  and  very 
proud,  withal,  that  she  belonged  to  the  race  that  gave 
them  birth.  She  could  only  listen  to  them  talk. 

"I'd  like  to  put  on  the  gloves  with  you  every  day  for 
half  an  hour,"  Hazard  said.  "You  could  teach  me  a  lot. 
Are  you  going  to  stay  around  here?" 

"No.  We're  goin'  on  down  the  coast,  lookin'  for  land. 
'Just  the  same,  I  could  teach  you  a  few,  and  there's  one 
'thing  you  could  teach  me — surf  swimmin'." 

"I'll  swap  lessons  with  you  any  time,"  Hazard  offered. 
He  turned  to  Saxon.  "Why  don't  you  stop  in  Garmel 
for  a  while?  It  isn't  so  bad." 

"It's  beautiful,"  she  acknowledged,  with  a  grateful 

smile,  "but "  She  turned  and  pointed  to  their  packs 

on  the  edge  of  the  lupins.  "We're  on  the  tramp,  and 
lookin'  for  government  land." 


374  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

"If  you're  looking  down  past  the  Sur  for  it,  it  will 
keep,"  he  laughed.  "Well,  I've  got  to  run  along  and 
get  some  clothes  on.  If  you  come  back  this  way,  look  me 
up.  Anybody  will  tell  you  where  I  live.  So  long." 

And,  as  he  had  first  arrived,  he  departed,  crossing  the 
sandhills  on  the  run. 

Billy  followed  him  with  admiring  eyes. 

"Some  boy,  some  boy,"  he  murmured.  "Why,  Saxon, 
he's  famous.  If  I've  seen  his  face  in  the  papers  once, 
I've  seen  it  a  thousand  times.  An'  he  ain't  a  bit  stuck  on 

himself.  Just  man  to  man.  Say!  I'm  beginnin'  to 

have  faith  in  the  old  stock  again." 

They  turned  their  backs  on  the  beach  and  in  the  tiny 
main  street  bought  meat,  vegetables,  and  half  a  dozen 
eggs.  Billy  had  to  drag  Saxon  away  from  the  window  of 
a  fascinating  shop  where  were  iridescent  pearls  of  abalone, 
set  and  unset. 

"Abalones  grow  here,  all  along  the  coast,"  Billy  as- 
sured her;  "an'  I'll  get  you  all  you  want.  Low  tide's  the 
time." 

"My  father  had  a  set  of  cuff-buttons  made  of  abalone 
shell,"  she  said.  "They  were  set  in  pure,  soft  gold.  I 
haven't  thought  about  them  for  years,  and  I  wonder  who 
has  them  now." 

They  turned  south.  Everywhere  from  among  the  pines 
peeped  the  quaint  pretty  houses  of  the  artist  folk,  and 
they  were  not  prepared,  where  the  road  dipped  to  Carmel 
River,  for  the  building  that  met  their  eyes. 

"I  know  what  it  is,"  Saxon  almost  whispered.  "It's  an 
old  Spanish  Mission.  It's  the  Carmel  Mission,  of  course. 
That's  the  way  the  Spaniards  came  up  from  Mexico,  build- 
ing missions  as  they  came  and  converting  the  In- 
dians  " 

"Until  we  chased  them  out,  Spaniards  an'  Indians, 
whole  kit  an'  caboodle,"  Billy  observed  with  calm  satis- 
faction. 

"Just  the  same,  it's  wonderful,"  Saxon  mused,  gazing 
at  the  big,  half-ruined  adobe  structure.  "There  is  the 


THE  VALLEY  OF  TEE  MOON     375 

Mission  Dolores,  in  San  Francisco,  but  it's  smaller  thas 
this  and  not  as  old." 

Hidden  from  the  sea  by  low  hillocks,  forsaken  by  hu- 
man being  and  human  habitation,  the  church  of  sun-baked 
clay  and  straw  and  chalk-rock  stood  hushed  and  breathless 
in  the  midst  of  the  adobe  ruins  which  once  had  housed  its 
worshiping  thousands.  The  spirit  of  the  place  descended 
upon  Saxon  and  Billy,  and  they  walked  softly,  speaking  in 
whispers,  almost  afraid  to  go  in  through  the  open  portal. 
There  was  neither  priest  nor  worshiper,  yet  they  found 
all  the  evidences  of  use,  by  a  congregation  which  Billy 
judged  must  be  small  from  the  number  of  the  benches. 
Later  they  climbed  the  earthquake-cracked  belfry,  noting 
the  hand-hewn  timbers ;  and  in  the  gallery,  discovering  the 
pure  quality  of  their  voices,  Saxon,  trembling  at  her  own 
temerity,  softly  sang  the  opening  bars  of  "  Jesus  Lover  of 
My  Soul."  Delighted  with  the  result,  she  leaned  over 
the  railing,  gradually  increasing  her  voice  to  its  full 
strength  as  she  sang: 

"Jesus,  Lover  of  my  soul, 

Let  me  to  Thy  bosom  fly, 
While  the  nearer  waters  roll, 

While  the  tempest  still  is  nigh. 
Hide  me,  O  my  Saviour,  hide, 

Till  the  storm  of  life  is  past; 
Safe  into  the  haven  guide 

And  receive  my  soul  at  last." 

Billy  leaned  against  the  ancient  wall  and  loved  her  with 
his  eyes,  and,  when  she  had  finished,  he  murmured,  al- 
most in  a  whisper: 

"That  was  beautiful — just  beautiful.  An'  you  ought  to 
a-seen  your  face  when  you  sang.  It  was  as  beautiful  as 

your  voice.  Ain't  it  funny? 1  never  think  of  religion 

except  when  I  think  of  you." 

They  camped  in  the  willow  bottom,  cooked  dinner,  and 
spent  the  afternoon  on  the  point  of  low  rocks  north  of 
the  mouth  of  the  river.  They  had  not  intended  to  spend 


376  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

the  afternoon,  but  found  themselves  too  fascinated  to  turn 
away  from  the  breakers  bursting  upon  the  rocks  and  from 
the  many  kinds  of  colorful  sea  life — starfish,  crabs,  mus- 
sels, sea  anemones,  and,  once,  in  a  rock-pool,  a  small  devil- 
fish that -chilled  their  blood  when  it  cast  the  hooded  net 
of  its  body  around  the  small  crabs  they  tossed  to  it.  As 
the  tide  grew  lower,  they  gathered  a  mess  of  mussels — 
huge  fellows,  five  and  six  inches  long  and  bearded  like 
patriarchs.  Then,  while  Billy  wandered  in  a  vain  search 
for  abalones,  Saxon  lay  and  dabbled  in  the  crystal-clear 
water  of  a  rock-pool,  dipping  up  handfuls  of  glistening 
jewels — ground  bits  of  shell  and  pebble  of  flashing  rose 
and  blue  and  green  and  violet.  Billy  came  back  and  lay 
beside  her,  lazying  in  the  sea-cool  sunshine,  and  together 
they  watched  the  sun  sink  into  the  horizon  where  the 
ocean  was  deepest  peacock-blue. 

She  reached  out  her  hand  to  Billy's  and  sighed  with 
sheer  repletion  of  content.  It  seemed  she  had  never  lived 
such  a  wonderful  day.  It  was  as  if  all  old  dreams  were 
•coming  true.  Such  beauty  of  the  world  she  had  never 
guessed  in  her  fondest  imagining.  Billy  pressed  her  hand 
tenderly. 

"What  was  you  thinkin'  of?"  he  asked,  as  they  &TOSS 
finally  to  go. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,  Billy.  Perhaps  that  it  was  better, 
one  day  like  this,  than  ten  thousand  years  in  Oakland.'" 


CHAPTER  VII 

THEY  left  Cannel  River  and  Carmel  Valley  behind,  and 
with  a  rising  sun  went  south  across  the  hills  between 
the  mountains  and  the  sea.  The  road  was  badly  washed 
and  gullied  and  showed  little  sign  of  travel. 

"It  peters  out  altogether  farther  down,"  Billy  said. 
"From  there  on  it's  only  horse  trails.  But  I  don't  see 
much  signs  of  timber,  an'  this  soil's  none  so  good.  It's 
only  used  for  pasture — no  farmin'  to  speak  of." 

The  hills  were  bare  and  grassy.  Only  the  canyons  were 
wooded,  while  the  higher  and  more  distant  hills  were 
furry  with  chaparral.  Once  they  saw  a  coyote  slide  into 
the  brush,  and  once  Billy  wished  for  a  gun  when  a  large 
wildcat  stared  at  them  malignantly  and  declined  to  run 
until  routed  by  a  clod  of  earth  that  burst  about  its  ears 
like  shrapnel. 

Several  miles  along  Saxon  complained  of  thirst.  Where 
the  road  dipped  nearly  at  sea  level  to  cross  a  small  gulch 
Billy  looked  for  water.  The  bed  of  the  gulch  was  damp 
with  hill-drip,  and  he  left  her  to  rest  while  he  sought  a 
spring. 

"Say,"  he  hailed  a  few  minutes  afterward.  "Come 
on  down.  You  just  gotta  see  this.  It'll  'most  take  your 
breath  away." 

<  Saxon  followed  the  faint  path  that  led  steeply  down 
'through  the  thicket.  Midway  along,  where  a  barbed  wire 
fence  was  strung  high  across  the  mouth  of  the  gulch  and 
weighted  down  with  big  rocks,  she  caught  her  first  glimpse 
of  the  tiny  beach.  Only  from  the  sea  could  one  guess  its 
existence,  so  completely  was  it  tucked  away  on  three  preci- 
pitous sides  by  the  land,  and  screened  by  the  thicket.  Fur- 
thermore, the  beach  was  the  head  of  a  narrow  rock  cove,  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  long,  up  which  pent  way  the  sea  roared 


378  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

and  was  subdued  at  the  last  to  a  gentle  pulse  of  surf. 
Beyond  the  mouth  many  detached  rocks,  meeting  the  fuD 
force  of  the  breakers,  spouted  foam  and  spray  high  in 
the  air.  The  knees  of  these  rocks,  seen  between  the 
surges,  were  black  with  mussels.  On  their  tops  sprawled 
huge  sea-lions  tawny-wet  and  roaring  in  the  sun,  whilfi 
overhead,  uttering  shrill  cries,  darted  and  wheeled  a  mul- 
titude of  sea  birds. 

The  last  of  the  descent,  from  the  barbed  wire  fence,  was 
a  sliding  fall  of  a  dozen  feet,  and  Saxon  arrived  on  the 
soft  dry  sand  in  a  sitting  posture. 

"Oh,  I  tell  you  it's  just  great,"  Billy  bubbled.  "Look 
at  it  for  a  camping  spot.  In  among  the  trees  there  is  the 
prettiest  spring  you  ever  saw.  An'  look  at  all  the  good 
firewood,  an'  .  .  ."  He  gazed  about  and  seaward  with 
eyes  that  saw  what  no  rush  of  words  could  compass. 
".  .  .  An',  an' everything.  We  could  live  here.  Look 
at  the  mussels  out  there.  An'  I  bet  you  we  could  catch 
fish.  What  d'ye  say  we  stop  a  few  days?  It's  vaca- 
tion anyway — an'  I  could  go  back  to  Carmel  for  hooks  an* 
lines." 

Saxon,  keenly  appraising  his  glowing  face,  realized  that 
he  was  indeed  being  won  from  the  city. 

"An'  there  ain't  no  wind  here,"  he  was  recommending. 
"Not  a  breath.  An'  look  how  wild  it  is.  Just  as  if  we  was 
a  thousand  miles  from  anywhere." 

The  wind,  which  had  been  fresh  and  raw  across  the 
bare  hills,  gained  no  entrance  to  the  cove;  and  the  beach 
was  warm  and  balmy,  the  air  sweetly  pungent  with  the 
thicket  odors.  Here  and  there,  in  the  midst  of  the  thicket, 
were  small  oak  trees  and  other  small  trees  of  which  Saxon 
did  not  know  the  names.  Her  enthusiasm  now  vied  with 
Billy's,  £tod,  hand  in  hand,  they  started  to  explore. 

"Here's  where  we  can  play  real  Robinson  Crusoe/* 
Billy  cried,  as  they  crossed  the  hard  sand  from  high- 
water  mark  to  the  edge  of  the  water.  "Come  on,  Robin- 
son. Let's  stop  over.  Of  course,  I'm  your  Man  Friday, 
an'  what  you  say  goes." 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     379 

"But  what  shall  we  do  with  Man  Saturday!"  She 
pointed  in  mock  consternation  to  a  fresh  footprint  in  the 
sand.  ' '  He  may  be  a  savage  cannibal,  you  know. ' ' 

"No  chance.     It's  not  a  bare  foot  but  a  tennis  shoe." 

"But  a  savage  could  get  a  tennis  shoe  from  a  drowned 
or  eaten  sailor,  couldn't  he?"  she  contended. 

"But  sailors  don't  wear  tennis  shoes,"  was  Billy's 
prompt  refutation. 

"You  know  too  much  for  Man  Friday,"  she  chided; 
"but,  just  the  same,  if  you'll  fetch  the  packs  we'll  make 
camp.  Besides,  it  mightn't  have  been  a  sailor  that  was 
eaten.  It  might  have  been  a  passenger." 

By  the  end  of  an  hour  a  snug  camp  was  completed. 
The  blankets  were  spread,  a  supply  of  firewood  was 
chopped  from  the  seasoned  driftwood,  and  over  a  fire  the 
coffee  pot  had  begun  to  sing.  Saxon  called  to  Billy,  who 
was  improvising  a  table  from  a  wave-washed  plank.  She 
pointed  seaward.  On  the  far  point  of  rocks,  naked  ex- 
cept for  swimming  trunks,  stood  a  man.  He  was  gazing 
toward  them,  and  they  could  see  his  long  mop  of  dark 
hair  blown  by  the  wind.  As  he  started  to  climb  the  rocks 
landward  Billy  called  Saxon's  attention  to  the  fact  that 
the  stranger  wore  tennis  shoes.  In  a  few  minutes  he 
dropped  down  from  the  rock  to  the  beach  and  walked  up 
to  them. 

* '  Gosh ! ' '  Billy  whispered  to  Saxon.  ' '  He 's  lean  enough, 
but  look  at  his  muscles.  Everybody  down  here  seems  to 
go  in  for  physical  culture." 

As  the  newcomer  approached,  Saxon  glimpsed  sufficient 
of  his  face  to  be  reminded  of  the  old  pioneers  and  of  a 
certain  type  of  face  seen  frequently  among  the  old  soldiers. 
Young  though  he  was — not  more  than  thirty,  she  decided 
— this  man  had  the  same  long  and  narrow  face,  with  the 
high  cheekbones,  high  and  slender  forehead,  and  nose  high, 
lean,  and  almost  beaked.  The  lips  were  thin  and  sensitive ; 
but  the  eyes  were  different  from  any  she  had  ever  seen 
in  pioneer  or  veteran  or  any  man.  They  were  so  dark  a 
gray  that  they  seemed  brown,  and  there  were  a  farness  and 


380  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

alertness  of  vision  in  them  as  of  bright  questing  through 
profounds  of  space.  In  a  misty  way  Saxon  felt  that  she 
had  seen  him  before. 

"Hello,"  he  greeted.     "You  ought  to  be  comfortable 
here."     He  threw  down  a  partly  filled  sack.     "Mussels. 
All  I  could  get.     The  tide's  not  low  enough  yet." 
'    Saxon  heard  Billy  muffle  an  ejaculation,  and  saw  painted 
on  his  face  the  extremest  astonishment. 

"Well,  honest  to  God,  it  does  me  proud  to  meet  you," 
he  blurted  out.  "Shake  hands.  I  always  said  if  I  laid 
eyes  on  you  I'd  shake.  Say!" 

But  Billy's  feelings  mastered  him,  and,  beginning  with 
a  choking  giggle,  he  roared  into  helpless  mirth. 

The  stranger  looked  at  him  curiously  across  their  clasped 
hands,  and  glanced  inquiringly  to  Saxon. 

"You  gotta  excuse  me,"  Billy  gurgled,  pumping  the 
ether's  hand  up  and  down.  "But  I  just  gotta  laugh. 
Why,  honest  to  God,  I've  woke  up  nights  an'  laughed  an' 
gone  to  sleep  again.  Don't  you  recognize  'm,  Saxon? 
He's  the  same  identical  dude — say,  friend,  you're  some 
punkins  at  a  hundred  yards  dash,  ain  't  you  ? ' ' 

And  then,  in  a  sudden  rush,  Saxon  placed  him.  He  it 
was  who  had  stood  with  Roy  Blanchard  'alongside  the 
automobile  on  the  day  she  had  wandered,  sick  and  unwit- 
ting, into  strange  neighborhoods.  Nor  had  that  day  been 
the  first  time  she  had  seen  him. 

"Remember  the  Bricklayers'  Picnic  at  Weasel  Park?" 
Billy  was  asking.  "An'  the  foot  race?  Why,  I'd  know 
•that  nose  of  yours  anywhere  among  a  million.  You  was 
tfie  guy  that  stuck  your  cane  between  Timothy  McManus's 
legs  an'  started  the  grandest  roughhouse  Weasel  Park  or 
any  other  park  ever  seen." 

The  visitor  now  commenced  to  laugh.  He  stood  on  one 
leg  as  he  laughed  harder,  then  stood  on  the  other  leg. 
Finally  he  sat  down  on  a  log  of  driftwood. 

"And  you  were  there,"  he  managed  to  gasp  to  Billy  at 
last.  "You  saw  it.  You  saw  it."  He  turned  to  Saxon. 
« And  you?" 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     381 

She  nodded. 

"Say,"  Billy  began  again,  as  their  laughter  eased  down, 
''what  I  wanta  know  is  what'd  you  wanta  do  it  for.  Say, 
vhat'd  you  wanta  do  it  for?  I've  ben  askin'  that  to 
tnyself  ever  since." 

"So  have  I,"  was  the  answer. 

"You  didn't  know  Timothy  McManus,  did  you?" 

"No;  I'd  never  seen  him  before,  and  I've  never  seen 
i.-m  since." 

"But  what'd  you  wanta  do  it  for?"  Billy  persisted. 

The  young  man  laughed,  then  controlled  himself. 

"To  save  my  life,  I  don't  know.  I  have  one  friend,  a 
irost  intelligent  chap  that  writes  sober,  scientific  books, 
and  he's  always  aching  to  throw  an  egg  into  an  electric 
fan  to  see  what  will  happen.  Perhaps  that's  the  way  it 
was  with  me,  except  that  there  was  no  aching.  When  I 
saw  those  legs  flying  past,  I  merely  stuck  my  stick  in 
between.  I  didn't  know  I  was  going  to  do  it.  I  just  did 
it.  Timothy  McManus  was  no  more  surprised  than  I 
was." 

"Did  they  catch  you?"  Billy  asked. 

"Do  I  look  as  if  they  did?  I  was  never  so  scared  in 
my  life.  Timothy  McManus  himself  couldn't  have  caught 
me  that  day.  But  what  happened  afterward?  I  heard 
they  had  a  fearful  roughhouse,  but  I  couldn't  stop  to 
see." 

It  was  not  until  a  quarter  of  an  hour  had  passed,  during 
which  Billy  described  the  fight,  that  introductions  took 
place.  Mark  Hall  was  their  visitor's  name,  and  he  lived 
in  a  bungalow  among  the  Carmel  pines. 

"But  how  did  you  ever  find  your  way  to  Bierce's  Cove?" 
he  was  curious  to  know.  "Nobody  ever  dreams  of  it  from 
the  road." 

"So  that's  its  name?"  Saxon  said. 

"It's  the  name  we  gave  it.  One  of  our  crowd  camped 
here  one  summer,  and  we  named  it  after  him.  Ill  take 

a  cup  of  that  coffee,  if  you  don't  mind."  This  to 

Saxon.  "And  then  I'll  show  your  husband  around.  We're 


382  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

pretty  proud  of  this  cove.  Nobody  ever  comes  here  but 
ourselves." 

"You  didn't  get  all  that  muscle  from  bein'  chased  by 
McManus,"  Billy  observed  over  the  coffee. 

"Massage  under  tension,"  was  the  cryptic  reply. 

"Yes,"  Billy  said,  pondering  vacantly.  "Do  you  eat  it 
with  a  spoon?" 

Hall  laughed. 

"I'll  show  you.  Take  any  muscle  you  want,  tense  it, 
then  manipulate  it  with  your  fingers,  so,  and  so." 

"An'  that  done  all  that?"  Billy  asked  skeptically. 

"All  that!"  the  other  scorned  proudly.  "For  one  mus- 
cle you  see,  there's  five  tucked  away  but  under  command. 
Touch  your  finger  to  any  part  of  me  and  see." 

Billy  complied,  touching  the  right  breast. 

"You  know  something  about  anatomy,  picking  a  muscle- 
less  spot,"  scolded  Hall. 

Billy  grinned  triumphantly,  then,  to  his  amazement,  saw 
a  muscle  grow  up  under  his  finger.  He  prodded  it,  and 
found  it  hard  and  honest. 

' '  Massage  under  tension ! ' '  Hall  exulted.  ' '  Go  on— any- 
where you  want." 

And  anywhere  and  everywhere  Billy  touched,  muscles 
large  and  small  rose  up,  quivered,  and  sank  down,  till  the 
whole  body  was  a  ripple  of  willed  quick. 

"Never  saw  anything  like  it,"  Billy  marveled  at  the 
end;  "an'  I've  seen  some  few  good  men  stripped  in  my 
time.  Why,  you're  all  living  silk." 

"Massage  under  tension  did  it,  my  friend.  The  doctors 
gave  me  up.  My  friends  called  me  the  sick  rat,  and  the 
mangy  poet,  and  all  that.  Then  I  quit  the  city,  came  down 
to  Carmel,  and  went  in  for  the  open  air — and  massage 
under  tension." 

"Jim  Hazard  didn't  get  his  muscles  that  way,"  Billy 
challenged. 

"Certainly  not,  the  lucky  skunk;  he  was  born  with  them. 
Mine's  made.  That's  the  difference.  I'm  a  work  of  art. 
He 's  a  cave  bear.  Come  along.  I  '11  show  you  around  now. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     383 

You  'd  better  get  your  clothes  off.    Keep  on  only  your  shoes 
and  pants,  unless  you've  got  a  pair  of  trunks." 

"My  mother  was  a  poet,"  Saxon  said,  while  Billy  was 
getting  himself  ready  in  the  thicket.  She  had  noted  HalPs 
reference  to  himself. 

He  seemed  incurious,  and  she  ventured  further. 

''Some  of  it  was  printed." 

"What  was  her  name?"  he  asked  idly. 

"Dayelle  Wiley  Brown.  She  wrote:  'The  Viking's 
Quest';  'Days  of  Gold';  'Constancy';  'The  Caballero'; 
'Graves  at  Little  Meadow';  and  a  lot  more.  Ten  of  them 
are  in  'The  Story  of  the  Files.'  " 

"I've  the  book  at  home,"  he  remarked,  for  the  first 
time  showing  real  interest.  ' '  She  was  a  pioneer,  of  course 
— before  my  time.  I'll  look  her  up  when  I  get  back  to 
the  house.  My  people  were  pioneers.  They  came  by 
Panama,  in  the  Fifties,  from  Long  Island.  My  father 
was  a  doctor,  but  he  went  into  business  in  San  Francisco 
and  robbed  his  fellow  men  out  of  enough  to  keep  me  and 

the  rest  of  a  large  family  going  ever  since.     Say, 

where  are  you  and  your  husband  bound?" 

When  Saxon  had  told  him  of  their  attempt  to  get  away 
from  Oakland  and  of  their  quest  for  land,  he  sympathized 
with  the  first  and  shook  his  head  over  the  second. 

"It's  beautiful  down  beyond  the  Sur,"  he  told  her. 
"I've  been  all  over  those  redwood  canyons,  and  the  place 
is  alive  with  game.  The  government  land  is  there,  too. 
But  you'd  be  foolish  to  settle.  It's  too  remote.  And  it 
isn't  good  farming  land,  except  in  patches  in  the  canyons. 
I  know  a  Mexican  there  who  is  wild  to  sell  his  five  hundred 
acres  for  fifteen  hundred  dollars.  Three  dollars  an  acre! 
And  what  does  that  mean?  That  it  isn't  worth  more. 
That  it  isn  't  worth  so  much ;  because  he  can  find  no  takers. 
Land,  you  know,  is  worth  what  they  buy  and  sell  it 
for." 

Billy,  emerging  from  the  thicket,  only  in  shoes  and  in 
pants  rolled  to  the  knees,  put  an  end  to  the  conversation; 
and  Saxon  watched  the  two  men,  physically  so  dissimilar. 


384  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

climb  the  rocks  and  start  out  the  south  side  of  the  cove. 
At  first  her  eyes  followed  them  lazily,  but  soon  she  grew 
interested  and  worried.  Hall  was  leading  Billy  up  what 
seemed  a  perpendicular  wall  in  order  to  gain  the  backbone 
of  the  rock.  Billy  went  slowly,  displaying  extreme  cau- 
tion; but  twice  she  saw  him  slip,  the  weather-eaten  stone 
crumbling  away  in  his  hand  and  rattling  beneath  him  into 
the  cove.  "When  Hall  reached  the  top,  a  hundred  feet 
above  the  sea,  she  saw  him  stand  upright  and  sway  easily 
on  the  knife-edge  which  she  knew  fell  away  as  abruptly 
on  the  other  side.  Billy,  once  on  top,  contented  himself 
with  crouching  on  hands  and  knees.  The  leader  went  on, 
upright,  walking  as  easily  as  on  a  level  floor.  Billy  aban- 
doned the  hands  and  knees  position,  but  crouched  closely 
and  often  helped  himself  with  his  hands. 

The  knife-edge  backbone  was  deeply  serrated,  and  into 
one  of  the  notches  both  men  disappeared.  Saxon  could 
not  keep  down  her  anxiety,  and  climbed  out  on  the  north 
side  of  the  cove,  which  was  less  rugged  and  far  less  diffi- 
cult to  travel.  Even  so,  the  unaccustomed  height,  the 
crumbling  surface,  and  the  fierce  buffets  of  the  wind  tried 
her  nerve.  Soon  she  was  opposite  the  men.  They  had 
leaped  a  narrow  chasm  and  were  scaling  another  tooth. 
Already  Billy  was  going  more  nimbly,  but  his  leader  often 
paused  and  waited  for  him.  The  way  grew  severer,  and 
several  times  the  clefts  they  essayed  extended  down  to  the 
ocean  level  and  spouted  spray  from  the  growling  breakers 
that  burst  through.  At  other  times,  standing  erect,  they 
would  fall  forward  across  deep  and  narrow  clefts  until 
•their  palms  met  the  opposing  side;  then,  clinging  with 
their  fingers,  their  bodies  would  be  drawn  across  and  up. 

Near  the  end,  Hall  and  Billy  went  out  of  sight  over  the 
south  side  of  the  backbone,  and  when  Saxon  saw  them 
again  they  were  rounding  the  extreme  point  of  rock  and 
coming  back  on  the  cove  side.  Here  the  way  seemed 
barred.  A  wide  fissure,  with  hopelessly  vertical  sides, 
yawned  skywards  from  a  foam-white  vortex  where  the 
mad  waters  shot  their  level  a  dozen  feet  upward  and 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     385 

dropped  it  as  abruptly  to  the  black  depths  of  battered 
rock  and  writhing  weed. 

Clinging  precariously,  the  men  descended  their  side  till 
the  spray  was  flying  about  them.  Here  they  paused. 
Saxon  could  see  Hall  pointing  down  across  the  fissure 
and  imagined  he  was  showing  some  curious  thing  to 
Billy.  She  was  not  prepared  for  what  followed.  The 
surf-level  sucked  and  sank  away,  and  across  and  down 
Hall  jumped  to  a  narrow  foothold  where  the  wash  had 
roared  yards  deep  the  moment  before.  Without  pause, 
as  the  returning  sea  rushed  up,  he  was  around  the  sharp 
corner  and  clawing  upward  hand  and  foot  to  escape  be- 
ing caught.  Billy  was  now  left  alone.  He  could  not  even 
see  Hall,  much  less  be  further  advised  by  him,  and  so 
tensely  did  Saxon  watch,  that  the  pain  in  her  finger-tips, 
crushed  to  the  rock  by  which  she  held,  warned  her  to  re- 
lax. Billy  waited  his  chance,  twice  made  tentative  prepa- 
rations to  leap  and  sank  back,  then  leaped  across  and  down 
to  the  momentarily  exposed  foothold,  doubled  the  corner, 
and  as  he  clawed  up  to  join  Hall  was  washed  to  the  waist 
but  not  torn  away. 

Saxon  did  not  breathe  easily  till  they  rejoined  her  at 
the  fire.  One  glance  at  Billy  told  her  that  he  was  ex- 
ceedingly disgusted  with  himself. 

"You'll  do,  for  a  beginner,"  Hall  cried,  slapping  him 
jovially  on  the  bare  shoulder.  "That  climb  is  a  stunt  of 
mine.  Many's  the  brave  lad  that's  started  with  me  and 
broken  down  before  we  were  half  way  out.  I've  had  a 
dozen  balk  at  that  big  jump.  Only  the  athletes  make  it." 

"I  ain't  ashamed  of  admittin'  I  was  scairt, "  Billy 
growled.  "You're  a  regular  goat,  an'  you  sure  got  my 
goat  half  a  dozen  times.  But  I'm  mad  now.  It's  mostly 
trainin',  an'  I'm  goin'  to  camp  right  here  an'  train  till 
I  can  challenge  you  to  a  race  out  an'  around  an'  back  to 
the  beach." 

"Done,"  said  Hall,  putting  out  his  hand  in  ratification. 
"And  some  time,  when  we  get  together  in  San  Francisco, 
I  '11  lead  you  up  against  Bierce — the  one  this  cove  is  named 


386  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

after.  His  favorite  stunt,  when  he  isn't  collecting  rattle- 
snakes,  is  to  wait  for  a  forty-mile-an-hour  breeze,  and  then 
get  up  and  walk  on  the  parapet  of  a  skyscraper — on  the  lee 
side,  mind  you,  so  that  if  he  blows  off  there's  nothing  to 
f  ele/i  him  up  but  the  street.  He  sprang  that  on  me  once. ' ' 

"Did  you  do  it?"  Billy  asked  eagerly. 

' '  I  wouldn  't  have  if  I  hadn  't  been  on.  I  'd  been  practic- 
'ing  it  secretly  for  a  week.  And  I  got  twenty  dollars  out 
of  him  on  the  bet." 

The  tide  was  now  low  enough  for  mussel  gathering  and 
Saxon  accompanied  the  men  out  the  north  wall.  Hall  had 
several  sacks  to  fill.  A  rig  was  coming  for  him  in  the 
afternoon,  he  explained,  to  cart  the  mussels  back  to  Car- 
mel.  When  the  sacks  were  full  they  ventured  further 
among  the  rock  crevices  and  were  rewarded  with  three 
abalones,  among  the  shells  of  which  Saxon  found  one 
coveted  blister-pearl.  Hall  initiated  them  into  the  myster- 
ies of  pounding  and  preparing  the  abalone  meat  for  cook- 
ing. 

By  this  time  it  seemed  to  Saxon  that  they  had  known 
him  a  long  time.  It  reminded  her  of  the  old  times  when 
Bert  had  been  with  them,  singing  his  songs  or  ranting 
about  the  last  of  the  Mohicans. 

"Now,  listen;  I'm  going  to  teach  you  something,"  Hall 
commanded,  a  large  round  rock  poised  in  his  hand  above 
the  abalone  meat.  "You  must  never,  never  pound  aba- 
lone  without  singing  this  song.  Nor  must  you  sing  this 
song  at  any  other  time.  It  would  be  the  rankest  sacrilege. 
Abalone  is  the  food  of  the  gods.  Its  preparation  is  a  relig- 
ious function.  Now  listen,  and  follow,  and  remember  that 
it  is  a  very  solemn  occasion." 

The  stone  came  down  with  a  thump  on  the  white  meat, 
and  thereafter  arose  and  fell  in  a  sort  of  tom-tom  accom« 
paniment  to  the  poet's  song: 

"Oh!  some  folks  boast  of  quail  on  toast, 

Because  they  think  it's  tony; 
But  I'm  content  to  owe  my  rent 
And  live  on  abalone. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     387 

"Oh!  Mission  Point's  a  friendly  joint 

Where  every  crab's  a  crony, 
And  true  and  kind    you'll  ever  find 
The  clinging  abalone. 

"He  wanders  free  beside  the  sea 
Where'er  the  ecast  is  stony; 
He  flaps  his  wings  and  madly  sings — 
The  plaintive  abalone. 

"Some  stick  to  biz,  some  flirt  with  Liz 

Down  on  the  sands  of  Coney; 
But  we,  by  hell,  stay  in  Carmel, 
And  whang  the  abalone." 

He  paused  with  his  mouth  open  and  stone  upraised. 
There  was  a  rattle  of  wheels  and  a  voice  calling  from 
above  where  the  sacks  of  mussels  had  been  carried.  He 
brought  the  stone  down  with  a  final  thump  and  stood  up. 

"There's  a  thousand  more  verses  like  those,"  he  said. 
"Sorry  I  hadn't  time  to  teach  you  them."  He  held  out 
his  hand,  palm  downward.  "And  now,  children,  bless  you, 
you  are  now  members  of  the  clan  of  Abalone  Eaters,  and  I 
solemnly  enjoin  you,  never,  no  matter  what  the  circum- 
stances, pound  abalone  meat  without  chanting  the  sacred 
words  I  have  revealed  unto  you." 

"But  we  can't  remember  the  words  from  only  one 
hearing,"  Saxon  expostulated. 

"That  shall  be  attended  to.  Next  Sunday  the  Tribe  of 
Abalone  Eaters  will  descend  upon  you  here  in  Bierce's 
Cove,  and  you  will  be  able  to  see  the  rites,  the  writers  and 
writeresses,  down  even  to  the  Iron  Man  with  the  basilisk 
eyes,  vulgarly  known  as  the  King  of  the  Sacerdotal  Liz- 
ards." 

"Will  Jim  Hazard  come?"  Billy  called,  as  Hall  disap- 
peared into  the  thicket. 

"He  will  certainly  come.  Is  he  not  the  Cave-Bear  Pot- 
Walloper  and  Gridironer,  the  most  fearsome,  and,  next  to 
me,  the  most  exalted,  of  all  the  Abalone  Eaters  ? ' ' 

Saxon  and  Billy  could  only  look  at  each  other  till  they 
heard  the  wheels  rattle  away. 


388  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

"Well,  I'll  be  doggoned,"  Billy  let  out.  "He's  some 
boy,  that.  Nothing  stuck  up  about  him.  Just  like  Jim 
Hazard,  comes  along  and  makes  himself  at  home,  you  're  as 
good  as  he  is  an'  he's  as  good  as  you,  an'  we're  all  friends 
together,  just  like  that,  right  off  the  bat." 

"He's  old  stock,  too,"  Saxon  said.  "He  told  me  while 
you  were  undressing.  His  folks  came  by  Panama  before 
the  railroad  was  built,  and  from  what  he  said  I  guess 
he's  got  plenty  of  money." 

"He  sure  don't  act  like  it." 

"And  isn't  he  full  of  fun!"  Saxon  cried. 

"A  regular  josher.    An'  him! a  poet!" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,  Billy.  I've  heard  that  plenty  of 
poets  are  odd." 

"That's  right,  come  to  think  of  it.  There's  Joaquin 
Miller,  lives  out  in  the  hills  back  of  Fruitvale.  He's  cer- 
tainly odd.  It's  right  near  his  place  where  I  proposed 
to  you.  Just  the  same  I  thought  poets  wore  whiskers  and 
eyeglasses,  an'  never  tripped  up  foot-racers  at  Sunday  pic- 
nics, nor  run  around  with  as  few  clothes  on  as  the  law 
allows,  gatherin'  mussels  an'  climbin'  like  goats." 

That  night,  under  the  blankets,  Saxon  lay  awake,  look- 
ing at  the  stars,  pleasuring  in  the  balmy  thicket-scents, 
and  listening  to  the  dull  rumble  of  the  outer  surf  and 
the  whispering  ripples  on  the  sheltered  beach  a  few  feet 
away.  Billy  stirred,  and  she  knew  he  was  not  yet  asleep. 

"Glad  you  left  Oakland,  Billy?"  she  snuggled. 

"Huh!"  came  his  answer.    "Is  a  clam  happy?" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

EVERY  half  tide  Billy  raced  out  the  south  wall  over  the 
dangerous  course  he  and  Hall  had  traveled,  and  each  trial1 
found  him  doing  it  in  faster  time. 

"Wait  till  Sunday,"  he  said  to  Saxon.  "I'll  give  that 
poet  a  run  for  his  money.  Why,  they  ain't  a  place  that 
bothers  me  now.  I've  got  the  head  confidence.  I  run 
where  I  went  on  hands  an'  knees.  I  figured  it  out  this 
way:  Suppose  you  had  a  foot  to  fall  on  each  side,  an'  it 
was  soft  hay.  They'd  be  nothing  to  stop  you.  You 
wouldn't  fall.  You'd  go  like  a  streak.  Then  it's  just  the 
same  if  it's  a  mile  down  on  each  side.  That  ain't  your 
concern.  Your  concern  is  to  stay  on  top  and  go  like  a 
streak.  An',  d'ye  know,  Saxon,  when  I  went  at  it  that 
way  it  never  bothered  me  at  all.  "Wait  till  he  comes  with 
his  crowd  Sunday.  I'm  ready  for  him." 

"I  wonder  what  the  crowd  will  be  like,"  Saxon  specu- 
lated. 

"Like  him,  of  course.  Birds  of  a  feather  flock  together. 
They  won't  be  stuck  up,  any  of  them,  you'll  see." 

Hall  had  sent  out  fish-lines  and  a  swimming  suit  by  a 
Mexican  cowboy  bound  south  to  his  ranch,  and  from  the 
latter  they  learned  much  of  the  government  land  and  how 
to  get  it.  The  week  flew  by ;  each  day  Saxon  sighed  a  fare- 
well of  happiness  to  the  sun;  each  morning  they  greeted 
its  return  with  laughter  of  joy  in  that  another  happy  day 
had  begun.  They  made  no  plans,  but  fished,  gathered 
mussels  and  abalones.  and  climbed  among  the  rocks  as 
the  moment  moved  them.  The  abalone  meat  they  pounded 
religiously  to  a  verse  of  doggerel  improvised  by  Saxon. 
Billy  prospered.  Saxon  had  never  seen  him  at  so  keen 
a  pitch  of  health.  As  for  herself,  she  scarcely  needed  the 


390  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

little  hand-mirror  to  know*  that  never,  since  she  was  a 
young  girl,  had  there  been  such  color  in  her  cheeks,  such 
spontaneity  of  vivacity. 

"It's  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  ever  had  real  play," 
Billy  said.  "An'  you  an'  me  never  played  at  all  all  the 
time  we  was  married.  This  beats  bein'  any  kind  of  a 
millionaire. ' ' 

"No  seven  o'clock  whistle,"  Saxon  exulted.  "I'd  lie 
abed  in  the  mornings  on  purpose,  only  everything  is  too 
good  not  to  be  up.  And  now  you  just  play  at  chopping 
some  firewood  and  catching  a  nice  big  perch,  Man  Friday, 
if  you  expect  to  get  any  dinner." 

Billy  got  up,  hatchet  in  hand,  from  where  he  had  been 
lying  prone,  digging  holes  in  the  sand  with  his  bare  toes. 

"But  it  ain't  goin'  to  last,"  he  said,  with  a  deep  sigh 
of  regret.  "The  rains '11  come  any  time  now.  Tius  good 
weather's  hangin'  on  something  wonderful." 

On  Saturday  morning,  returning  from  his  run  out  the 
south  wall,  he  missed  Saxon.  After  halloing  for  her  with- 
out result,  he  climbed  to  the  road.  Half  a  mile  away,  he 
saw  her  astride  an  unsaddled,  unbridled  horse  that  moved 
unwillingly,  at  a  slow  walk,  across  the  pasture. 

"Lucky  for  you  it  was  an  old  mare  that  had  been  used  to 
ridin' — see  them  saddle  marks,"  he  grumbled,  when  she 
at  last  drew  to  a  halt  beside  him  and  allowed  him  to  help 
her  down. 

"Oh,  Billy,"  she  sparkled,  "I  was  never  on  a  horse 
before.  It  was  glorious!  I  felt  so  helpless,  too,  and  so 
brave." 

"I'm  proud  of  you,  just  the  same,"  he  said,  in  more 
grumbling  tones  than  before.  "  'Tain't  every  married 
woman 'd  tackle  a  strange  horse  that  way,  especially  if 
she'd  never  ben  on  one.  An'  I  ain't  forgot  that  you're 
goin'  to  have  a  saddle  animal  all  to  yourself  some  day— 
a  regular  Joe  dandy." 

The  Abalone  Eaters,  in  two  rigs  and  on  a  number  of 
horses,  descended  in  force  on  Bierce's  Cove.  There  were 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      391 

half  a  score  of  men  and  almost  as  many  women.  All  were 
young,  between  the  ages  of  twenty-five  and  forty,  and  all 
seemed  good  friends.  Most  of  them  were  married.  They 
arrived  in  a  roar  of  good  spirits,  tripping  one  another 
clown  the  slippery  trail  and  engulfing  Saxon  and  Billy  in 
a  comradeship  as  artless  and  warm  as  the  sunshine  itself. 
Saxon  was  appropriated  by  the  girls — she  could  not  real- 
ize them  women;  and  they  made  much  of  her,  praising 
her  camping  and  traveling  equipment  and  insisting  on 
hearing  some  of  her  tale.  They  were  experienced  camp- 
ers themselves,  as  she  quickly  discovered  when  she  saw 
the  pots  and  pans  and  clothes-boilers  for  the  mussels  which 
they  had  brought. 

In  the  meantime  Billy  and  the  men  had  undressed  and 
scattered  out  after  mussels  and  abalones.  The  girls  lighted 
on  Saxon's  ukulele  and  nothing  would  do  but  she  must 
play  and  sing.  Several  of  them  had  been  to  Honolulu, 
and  knew  the  instrument,  confirming  Mercedes'  definition 
of  ukulele  as  "jumping  flea."  Also,  they  knew  Hawaiian 
songs  she  had  learned  from  Mercedes,  and  soon,  to  her 
accompaniment,  all  were  singing:  " Aloha  Oe,"  "Hono- 
lulu Tomboy,"  and  "Sweet  Lei  Lehua."  Saxon  was  gen- 
uinely shocked  when  some  of  them,  even  the  more  matron- 
ly, danced  hulas  on  the  sand. 

"When  the  men  returned,  burdened  with  sacks  of  shell- 
fish, Mark  Hall,  as  high  priest,  commanded  the  due  and 
solemn  rite  of  the  tribe.  At  a  wave  of  his  hand,  the  many 
poised  stones  came  down  in  unison  on  the  white  meat,  and 
all  voices  were  uplifted  in  the  Hymn  to  the  Abalone.  Old 
verses  all  sang,  occasionally  some  one  sang  a  fresh  verse 
alone,  whereupon  it  was  repeated  in  chorus.  Billy  be- 
trayed Saxon  by  begging  her  in  an  undertone  to  sing  the 
verse  she  had  made,  and  her  pretty  voice  was  timidly 
raised  in: 

"We  sit  around  and  gaily  pound, 

And  bear  no  acrimony, 
Because  ovr  ob — ject  is  a  gob 
Of  sizzling  abalone. " 


392  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

"Great!"  cried  the  poet,  who  had  winced  at  ob — ject. 
"She  speaks  the  language  of  the  tribe!  Come  on,  chil- 
dren— now ! ' ' 

And  all  chanted  Saxon's  lines.  Then  Jim  Hazard  had 
a  new  verse,  and  one  of  the  girls,  and  the  Iron  Man  with 
the  basilisk  eyes  of  greenish-gray,  whom  Saxon  recognized 
from  Hall's  description.  To  her  it  seemed  he  had  the 
face  of  a  priest. 

"Oh!  some  like  ham  and  some  like  lamb, 

And  some  like  macaroni; 
But  bring  me  in  a  pail  of  gin 
And  a  tub  of  abalone. 

"Oh!  some  drink  rain  and  some  champagne 

Or  brandy  by  the  pony; 

But  I  will  try  a  little  rye 

With  a  dash  of  abalone. 

"Some  live  on  hope  and  some  on  dope, 

And  some  on  alimony; 
But  our  tom-cat,  he  lives  on  fat 
And  tender  abalone." 

A  black-haired,  black-eyed  man  with  the  roguish  face  of 
a  satyr,  who,  Saxon  learned,  was  an  artist  who  sold  his 
paintings  at  five  hundred  apiece,  brought  on  himself  uni- 
versal execration  and  acclamation  by  singing: 

"The  more  we  take,  the  more  they  make 

In  deep-sea  matrimony; 
Race-suicide  cannot  bettdf 
The  fertile  abalone." 

And  so  it  went,  verses  new  and  old,  verses  without  end, 
all  in  glorification  of  the  succulent  shellfish  of  Carmel. 
Saxon's  enjoyment  was  keen,  almost  ecstatic,  and  she  had 
difficulty  in  convincing  herself  of  the  reality  o£  it  all. 
It  seemed  like  some  fairy  tale  or  book  story  come  tri?^ 
Again,  it  seemed  more  like  a  stage,  and  these  the  actors,  she 
and  Billy  having  blundered  into  the  scene  in  some  in- 
comprehensible way.  Much  of  wit  she  sensed  which  she 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     393 

did  not  understand.  Much  she  did  understand.  And  she 
was  aware  that  brains  were  playing  as  she  had  never 
seen  brains  play  before.  The  puritan  streak  in  her  training 
was  astonished  and  shocked  by  some  of  the  broadness; 
but  she  refused  to  sit  in  judgment.  They  seemed  good' 
these  light-hearted  young  people ;  they  certainly  were  not 
rough  or  gross  as  were  many  of  the  crowds  she  had  been 
with  on  Sunday  picnics.  None  of  the  men  got  drunk,  al- 
though there  were  cocktails  in  vacuum  bottles  and  red 
wine  in  a  huge  demijohn. 

"What  impressed  Saxon  most  was  their  excessive  jollity, 
their  childlike  joy,  and  the  childlike  things  they  did.  This 
effect  was  heightened  by  the  fact  that  they  were  novsiists 
and  painters,  poets  and  critics,  sculptors  and  musicians. 
One  man,  with  a  refined  and  delicate  face — a  dramatic 
critic  on  a  great  San  Francisco  daily,  she  was  told — in- 
troduced a  feat  which  all  the  men  tried  and  failed  at 
most  ludicrously.  On  the  beach,  at  regular  intervals, 
planks  were  placed  as  obstacles.  Then  the  dramatic  critic, 
on  all  fours,  galloped  along  the  sand  for  all  the  world  like 
a  horse,  and  for  all  the  world  like  a  horse  taking  hurdles 
he  jumped  the  planks  to  the  end  of  the  course. 

Quoits  had  been  brought  along,  and  for  a  while  these 
were  pitched  with  zest.  Then  jumping  was  started,  and 
game  slid  into  game.  Billy  took  part  in  everything,  but 
did  not  win  first  place  as  often  as  he  had  expected.  An 
English  writer  beat  him  a  dozen  feet  at  tossing  the  caber. 
Jim  Hazard  beat  him  in  putting  the  heavy  "rock."  Mark 
Hall  out-jumped  him  standing  and  running.  But  at  the 
standing  high  back-jump  Billy  did  come  first.  Despite  the 
handicap  of  his  weight,  this  victory  was  due  to  his 
splendid  back  and  abdominal  lifting  muscles.  Im- 
mediately after  this,  however,  he  was  brought  to  grief 
by  Mark  Hall's  sister,  a  strapping  young  amazon  in  cross- 
saddle  riding  costume,  who  three  times  tumbled  him 
ignominiously  heels  over  head  in  a  bout  of  Indian  wrest- 
ling. 

"You're  easy,"  jeered  the  Iron  Man,  whose  name  they 


394  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

had  learned  was  Pete  Bideaux.  "I  can  put  you  down 
myself,  catch-as-catch-can. ' ' 

Billy  accepted  the  challenge,  and  found  in  all  truth 
that  the  other  was  rightly  nicknamed.  In  the  training 
camps  Billy  had  sparred  and  clinched  with  giant  cham- 
pions like  Jim  Jeffries  and  Jack  Johnson,  and  met  the 
weight  of  their  strength,  but  never  had  he  encountered 
strength  like  this  of  the  Iron  Man.  Do  what  he  could, 
Billy  was  powerless,  and  twice  his  shoulders  were  ground 
into  the  sand  in  defeat. 

"You'll  get  a  chance  back  at  him,"  Hazard  whispered 
to  Billy,  off  at  one  side.  "I've  brought  the  gloves  along. 
Of  course,  you  had  no  chance  with  him  at  his  own 
game.  He's  wrestled  in  the  music  halls  in  London  with 
Haekenschmidt.  Now  you  keep  quiet,  and  we'll  lead 
up  to  it  in  a  casual  sort  of  way.  He  doesn't  know  about 
you." 

Soon,  the  Englishman  who  had  tossed  the  caber  was 
sparring  with  the  dramatic  critic,  Hazard  and  Hall  boxed 
in  fantastic  burlesque,  then,  gloves  in  hand,  looked  for 
the  next  appropriately  matched  couple.  The  choice  of 
Bideaux  amd  Billy  was  obvious. 

"He's  liable  to  get  nasty  if  he's  hurt,"  Hazard  warned 
Billy,  as  he  tied  on  the  gloves  for  him.  "He's  old  Amer- 
ican French,  and  he's  got  a  devil  of  a  temper.  But  just 
keep  your  head  and  tap  him — whatever  you  do,  keep  tap- 
ping him." 

"Easy  sparring  now";  "No  roughhouse,  Bideaux"; 
"Just  light  tapping,  you  know,"  were  admonitions  va- 
riously addressed  to  the  Iron  Man. 

"Hold  on  a  second,"  he  said  to  Billy,  dropping  his 
hands.  ' '  When  I  get  rapped  I  do  get  a  bit  hot.  But  don 't 
mind  me.  I  can't  help  it,  you  know.  It's  only  for  the 
moment,  and  I  don't  mean  it." 

Saxon  felt  very  nervous,  visions  of  Billy's  bloody  fights 
and  all  the  scabs  he  had  slugged  rising  in  her  brain ;  but 
she  had  never  seen  her  husband  box,  and  but  few  seconds 
were  required  to  put  her  at  ease.  The  Iron  Man  had 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     395 

no  chance.  Billy  was  too  completely  the  master,  guard- 
ing every  blow,  himself  continually  and  almost  at  will  tap- 
ping the  other's  face  and  body.  There  was  no  weight  in 
Billy's  blows,  only  a  light  and  snappy  tingle;  but  their 
incessant  iteration  told  on  the  Iron  Man's  temper.  In  vain 
the  onlookers  warned  him  to  go  easy.  His  face  purpled 
with  anger,  and  his  blows  became  savage.  But  Billy  went 
on,  tap,  tap,  tap,  calmly,  gently,  imperturbably.  The  Iron 
Man  lost  control,  and  rushed  and  plunged,  delivering 
great  swings  and  upper-cuts  of  man-killing  quality.  Billy 
ducked,  side-stepped,  blocked,  stalled,  and  escaped  all  dam- 
age. In  the  clinches,  which  were  unavoidable,  he  locked  the 
Iron  Man's  arms,  and  in  the  clinches  the  Iron  Man  in- 
variably laughed  and  apologized,  only  to  lose  his  head  with 
the  first  tap  the  instant  they  separated  and  be  more  in- 
furiated than  ever. 

And  when  it  was  over  and  Billy's  identity  had  been 
divulged,  the  Iron  Man  accepted  the  joke  on  himself  with 
the  best  of  humor.  It  had  been  a  splendid  exhibition  on 
Billy's  part.  His  mastery  of  the  sport,  coupled  with  his 
self-control,  had  most  favorably  impressed  the  crowd,  and 
Saxon,  very  proud  of  her  man  boy,  could  not  but  see  the 
admiration  all  had  for  him. 

Nor  did  she  prove  in  any  way  a  social  failure.  When 
the  tired  and  sweating  players  lay  down  in  the  dry  sand 
to  cool  off,  she  was  persuaded  into  accompanying  their 
nonsense  songs  with  the  ukulele.  Nor  was  it  long,  catching 
their  spirit,  ere  she  was  singing  to  them  and  teaching 
I  them  quaint  songs  of  early  days  which  she  had  herself 
learned  as  a  little  girl  from  Cady— Cady,  the  saloonkeeper, 
pioneer,  and  ex-cavalryman,  who  had  been  a  bull-whacker 
on  the  Salt  Lake  Trail  in  the  days  before  the  railroad. 
One  song  which  became  an  immediate  favorite  was: 

"Oh!  times  on  Bitter  Creek,  they  never  can  be  beat, 
Root  hog  or  die  is  on  every  wagon  sheet; 
The  sand  within  your  throat,  the  dust  within  jour  eye, 
Bend  your  back  and  stand  it— root  hog  or  die." 


396  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

After  the  dozen  verses  of  "Root  Hog  or  Die,"  Mark  Hall 
claimed  to  be  especially  infatuated  with: 

"Obadier,  he  dreampt  a  dream, 
Dreampt  he  was  drivin'  a  ten-mule  team, 
But  when  he  woke  he  heaved  a  sigh, 
The  lead-mule  kicked  e-o-wt  the  swing-mule's  eye." 

It  was  Mark  Hall  who  brought  up  the  matter  of  Billy's 
challenge  to  race  out  the  south  wall  of  the  cove,  though  he 
referred  to  the  test  as  lying  somewhere  in  the  future. 
Billy  surprised  him  by  saying  he  was  ready  at  any  time. 
Forthwith  the  crowd  clamored  for  the  race.  Hall  offered 
to  bet  on  himself,  but  there  were  no  takers.  He  offered 
two  to  one  to  Jim  Hazard,  who  shook  his  head  and  said 
he  would  accept  three  to  one  as  a  sporting  proposition. 
Billy  heard  and  gritted  his  teeth. 

"Ill  take  you  for  five  dollars,"  he  said  to  Hall,  "but 
lot  at  those  odds.  I'll  back  myself  even." 

"It  isn't  your  money  I  want;  it's  Hazard's,"  Hall 
demurred.  "Though  I'll  give  either  of  you  three  to 
>ne." 

"Even  or  nothing,"  Billy  held  out  obstinately. 

Hall  finally  closed  both  bets — even  with  Billy,  and  three 
to  one  with  Hazard. 

The  path  along  the  knife-edge  was  so  narrow  that  it 
was  impossible  for  runners  to  pass  each  other,  so  it  was 
arranged  to  time  the  men,  Hall  to  go  first  and  Billy  to 
follow  after  an  interval  of  half  a  minute. 

Hall  toed  the  mark  and  at  the  word  was  off  with 
the  form  of  a  sprinter.  Saxon's  heart  sank.  She  knew 
Billy  had  never  crossed  the  stretch  of  sand  at  that  speed. 
Billy  darted  forward  thirty  seconds  later,  and  reached  the 
foot  of  the  rock  when  Hall  was  half  way  up.  When 
both  were  on  top  and  racing  from  notch  to  notch,  the  Iron 
Man  announced  that  they  had  scaled  the  wall  in  the  same 
time  to  a  second. 

"My  money  still  looks  good,"  Hazard  remarked,  "though 
X  hope  neither  of  them  breaks  a  neck.  I  wouldn't  take 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     397 

that  run  that  way  for  all  the  gold  that  would  fill  the 
cove." 

"But  you'll  take  bigger  chances  swimming  in  a  storm 
on  Carmel  Beach,"  his  wife  chided. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  retorted.  "You  haven't  so 
far  to  fall  when  swimming." 

Billy  and  Hall  had  disappeared  and  were  making  the 
circle  around  the  end.  Those  on  the  beach  were  certain 
that  the  poet  had  gained  in  the  dizzy  spurts  of  flight  along 
the  knife-edge.  Even  Hazard  admitted  it. 

"What  price  for  my  money  now?"  he  cried  excitedly, 
dancing  up  and  down. 

Hall  had  reappeared,  the  great  jump  accomplished,  and 
was  running  shoreward.  But  there  was  no  gap.  Billy 
was  on  his  heels,  and  on  his  heels  he  stayed,  in  to  shore, 
down  the  wall,  and  to  the  mark  on  the  beach.  Billy  had 
won  by  half  a  minute. 

"Only  by  the  watch,"  he  panted.  "Hall  was  over  half 
a  minute  ahead  of  me  out  to  the  end.  I  'm  not  slower  than 
I  thought,  but  he's  faster.  He's  a  wooz  of  a  sprinter.  He 
could  beat  me  ten  times  outa  ten,  except  for  accident.  He 
was  hung  up  at  the  jump  by  a  big  sea.  That's  where  I 
caught  'm.  I  jumped  right  after  'm  on  the  same  sea,  then 
he  set  the  pace  home,  and  all  I  had  to  do  was  take  it." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Hall.  "You  did  better  than 
beat  me.  That's  the  first  time  in  the  history  of  Bierce's 
Cove  that  two  men  made  that  jump  on  the  same  sea.  And 
all  the  risk  was  yours,  coming  last." 

"It  was  a  fluke,"  Billy  insisted. 

And  at  that  point  Saxon  settled  the  dispute  of  modesty 
and  raised  a  general  laugh  by  rippling  chords  on  the 
smilele  and  parodying  an  old  hymn  in  negro  minstrel 

*'De  Lswd  move  in  er  mischievous  way 
His  blunders  to  perform." 

In  the  afternoon  Jim  Hazard  and  Hall  dived  mt&  *^ 
breakers  and  swam  to  the  outlying  rocks,  routing  the  prc- 


398  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

testing  sea-lions  and  taking  possession  of  their  surf -battered 
stronghold.  Billy  followed  the  swimmers  with  his  eyes, 
yearning  after  them  so  undisguisedly  that  Mrs.  Hazard 
said  to  him: 

"Why  don't  you  stop  in  Carmel  this  winter?  Jim  will 
teach  you  all  he  knows  about  the  surf.  And  he's  wild  to 
box  with  you.  He  works  long  hours  at  his  desk,  and  he 
really  needs  exercise." 

Not  until  sunset  did  the  merry  crowd  carry  their  pots 
and  pans  and  trove  of  mussels  up  to  the  road  and  depart. 
Saxon  and  Billy  watched  them  disappear,  on  horses  and 
behind  horses,  over  the  top  of  the  first  hill,  and  then  de- 
scended hand  in  hand  through  the  thicket  to  the  camp 
Billy  threw  himself  on  the  sand  and  stretched  out. 

"I  don't  know  when  I've  been  so  tired,"  he  yawned. 
"An'  there's  one  thing  sure:  I  never  had  such  a  day. 
It's  worth  livin'  twenty  years  for  an'  then  some." 

He  reached  out  his  hand  to  Saxon,  who  lay  beside  him. 

"And,  oh,  I  was  so  proud  of  you,  Billy,"  she  said.  "I 
never  saw  you  box  before.  I  didn't  know  it  was  like  that. 
The  Iron  Man  was  at  your  mercy  all  the  time,  and  you 
kept  it  from  being  violent  or  terrible.  Everybody  could 
look  on  and  enjoy — and  they  did,  too." 

"Huh,  I  want  to  say  you  was  goin'  some  yourself.  They 
just  took  to  you.  Why,  honest  to  God,  Saxon,  in  the 
singin'  you  was  the  whole  show,  along  with  the  ukulele. 
All  the  women  liked  you,  too,  an'  that's  what  counts." 

It  was  their  first  social  triumph,  and  the  taste  of  it 
was  sweet: 

"Mr.  Hall  said  he'd  looked  up  the  'Story  of  the  Files,'  " 
Saxon  recounted.  "And  he  said  mother  was  a  true  poet. 
He  said  it  was  astonishing  the  fine  stock  that  had  crossed 
the  Plains.  He  told  me  a  lot  about  those  times  and  the 
people  I  didn't  know.  And  he's  read  all  about  the  fight  at 
Little  Meadow.  He  says  he's  got  it  in  a  book  at  home, 
and  if  we  come  back  to  Cannel  he'll  show  it  to  me." 

"He  wants  us  to  come  back  all  right.    D'ye  know  what 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     399 

he  said  to  me,  Saxon?  He  gave  me  a  letter  to  some  guy 
that's  down  on  the  government  land — some  poet  that's 
holdin'  down  a  quarter  of  a  section — so  we'll  be  able  to 
stop  there,  which  '11  come  in  handy  if  the  big  rains  catch  us. 
An' — Oh!  that's  what  I  was  drivin'  at.  He  said  he  had 
a  little  shack  he  lived  in  while  the  house  was  buildin'. 
The  Iron  Man's  livin'  in  it  now,  but  he's  goin'  away  to 
some  Catholic  college  to  study  to  be  a  priest,  an'  Hall 
said  the  shack 'd  be  ours  as  long  as  we  wanted  to  use  it. 
An'  he  said  I  could  do  what  the  Iron  Man  was  doin'  to 
make  a  livin'.  Hall  was  kind  of  bashful  when  he  was 
offerin'  me  work.  Said  it'd  be  only  odd  jobs,  but  that  we'd 
make  out.  I  could  help'm  plant  potatoes,  he  said;  an'  he 
got  half  savage  when  he  said  I  couldn't  chop  wood.  That 
was  his  job,  he  said;  an'  you  could  see  he  was  actually 
jealous  over  it." 

"And  Mrs.  Hall  said  just  about  the  same  to  me,  Billy. 
Carmel  wouldn't  be  so  bad  to  pass  the  rainy  season  in. 
And  then,  too,  you  couid  go  swimming  with  Mr.  Hazard." 

"Seems  as  if  we  could  settle  down  wherever  we've  a 
mind  to."  Billy  assented.  "Carmel's  the  third  place  now 
that 's  offered.  Well,  after  this,  no  man  need  be  afraid  of 
makin'  a  go  in  the  country." 

"No  good  man,"  Saxon  corrected. 

"I  guess  you're  right."  Billy  thought  for  a  moment. 
"Just  the  same  a  dub,  too,  has  a  better  chance  in  the 
country  than  in  the  city." 

"Who'd  have  ever  thought  that  such  fine  people  ex- 
isted?" Saxon  pondered.  "It's  just  wonderful,  when  you 
come  to  think  of  it." 

"It's  only  what  you'd  expect  from  a  rich  poet  that'd 
trip  up  a  foot-racer  at  an  Irish  picnic,"  Billy  exposited. 
"The  only  crowd  such  a  guy'd  run  with  would  be  like 
himself,  or  he'd  make  a  crowd  that  was.  I  wouldn't  won- 
der that  he'd  make  this  crowd.  Say,  he's  got  some 

sister,  if  anybody 'd  ride  up  on  a  sea-lion  an'  ask  you. 
She's  got  that  Indian  wrestlin'  down  pat,  an'  she's  built 
for  it.  An'  say,  ain't  his  wife  a  beaut?" 


400  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

'A  little  longer  they  lay  in  the  warm  sand.  It  was  Billy 
who  broke  the  silence,  and  what  he  said  seemed  to  pro- 
ceed out  of  profound  meditation. 

"Say,  Saxon,  d'ye  know  I  don't  care  if  I  never  see 
movin'  pictures  again." 


CHAPTER   IX 

SAXON  and  Billy  were  gone  weeks  on  the  trip  south,  but 
in  the  end  they  came  back  to  Carmel.  They  had  stopped 
with  Hafler,  the  poet,  in  the  Marble  House,  which  he 
had  built  with  his  own  hands.  This  queer  dwelling  was 
all  in  one  room,  built  almost  entirely  of  white  marble. 
Hafler  cooked,  as  over  a  campfire,  in  the  huge  marble  fire- 
place, which  he  used  in  all  ways  as  a  kitchen.  There  were 
divers  shelves  of  books,  and  the  massive  furniture  he  had 
made  from  redwood,  as  he  had  made  the  shakes  for  the 
roof.  A  blanket,  stretched  across  a  corner,  gave  Saxon 
privacy.  The  poet  was  on  the  verge  of  departing  for  San 
Francisco  and  New  York,  but  remained  a  day  over  with 
them  to  explain  the  country  and  run  over  the  government 
land  with  Billy.  Saxon  had  wanted  to  go  along  that  morn- 
ing, but  Hafler  scornfully  rejected  her,  telling  her  that  her 
legs  were  too  short.  That  night,  when  the  men  returned, 
Billy  was  played  out  to  exhaustion.  He  frankly  acknow- 
ledged that  Hafler  had  walked  him  into  the  ground,  and 
that  his  tongue  had  been  hanging  out  from  the  first  hour. 
Hafler  estimated  that  they  had  covered  fifty-five  miles. 

"But  such  miles!"  Billy  enlarged.  "Half  the  time 
Itip  or  down,  an'  'most  all  the  time  without  trails.  An* 
such  a  pace.  He  was  dead  right  about  your  short  legs, 
Saxon.  You  wouldn't  a-lasted  the  first  mile.  An'  such 
country!  "We  ain't  seen  anything  like  it  yet." 

Hafler  left  the  next  day  to  catch  the  train  at  Monterey. 
He  gave  them  the  freedom  of  the  Marble  House,  and  told 
them  to  stay  the  whole  winter  if  they  wanted.  Billy  elected 
to 'loaf  around  and  rest  up  that  day.  He  was  stiff  and 
sore.  Moreover,  he  was  stunned  by  the  exhibition  of 
walking  prowess  on  the  part  of  the  poet. 


402  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

"Everybody  can  do  something  top-notch  down  in  this 
country,"  he  marveled.  "Now  take  that  Hafler.  He's  a 
bigger  man  than  me,  an'  a  heavier.  An'  weight's  against 
walkin',  too.  But  not  with  him.  He's  done  eighty  miles 
inside  twenty-four  hours,  he  told  me,  an'  once  a  hundred 
an'  seventy  in  three  days.  Why,  he  made  a  show  outa  me. 
I  felt  ashamed  as  a  little  kid." 

"Remember,  Billy,"  Saxon  soothed  him,  "every  man  to! 
his  own  game.  And  down  here  you're  a  top-notcher  at 
your  own  game.  There  isn't  one  you're  not  the  master 
of  with  the  gloves." 

"I  guess  that's  right,"  he  conceded.  "But  just  the 
same  it  goes  against  the  grain  to  be  walked  off  my  legs 
by  a  poet —  by  a  poet,  mind  you." 

They  spent  days  in  going  over  the  government  land,  and 
in  the  end  reluctantly  decided  against  taking  it  up.  The 
redwood  canyons  and  great  cliffs  of  the  Santa  Lucia  Moun- 
tains fascinated  Saxon;  but  she  remembered  what  Hafler 
had  told  her  of  the  summer  fogs  which  hid  the  sun  some- 
times for  a  week  or  two  at  a  time,  and  which  lingered 
for  months.  Then,  too,  there  was  no  access  to  market. 
It  was  many  miles  to  where  the  nearest  wagon  road  began, 
at  Post's,  and  from  there  on,  past  Point  Sur  to  Carmel, 
it  was  a  weary  and  perilous  way.  Billy,  with  his  teamster 
judgment,  admitted  that  for  heavy  hauling  it  was  any- 
thing but  a  picnic.  There  was  the  quarry  of  perfect  mar- 
ble on  Hafler 's  quarter  section.  He  had  said  that  it  would 
be  worth  a  fortune  if  near  a  railroad ;  but,  as  it  was,  he  'd 
make  them  a  present  of  it  if  they  wanted  it. 

Billy  visioned  the  grassy  slopes  pastured  with  his  horses 
and  cattle,  and  found  it  hard  to  turn  his  back;  but  he 
listened  with  a  willing  ear  to  Saxon's  argument  in  favor 
of  a  farm-home  like  the  one  they  had  seen  in  the  moving 
pictures  in  Oakland.  Yes,  he  agreed,  what  they  wanted 
was  an  all-around  farm,  and  an  all-around  farm  they 
would  have  if  they  hiked  forty  years  to  find  it. 

"But  it  must  have  redwoods  on  it."  Saxon  hastened  to 
stipulate.  "I've  fallen  in  love  with  them.  And  we  can 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     403 

get  along  without  fog.  And  there  must  he  good  wagon- 
roads,  and  a  railroad  not  more  than  a  thousand  miles 
away." 

Heavy  winter  rains  held  them  prisoners  for  two  weeks 
in  the  Marble  House.  Saxon  browsed  among  Hafler's 
books,  though  most  of  them  were  depressingly  beyond  her, 
while  Billy  hunted  with  Hafler's  guns.  But  he  was  a 
poor  shot  and  a  worse  hunter.  His  only  success  was  with 
rabbits,  which  he  managed  to  kill  on  occasions  when  they 
stood  still.  With  the  rifle  he  got  nothing,  although  he 
fired  at  half  a  dozen  different  deer,  and,  once,  at  a  huge 
cat-creature  with  a  long  tail  which  he  was  certain  was 
a  mountain  lion.  Despite  the  way  he  grumbled  at  him- 
self, Saxon  could  see  the  keen  joy  he  was  taking.  This 
belated  arousal  of  the  hunting  instinct  seemed  to  make 
almost  another  man  of  him.  He  was  out  early  and  late, 
compassing  prodigious  climbs  and  tramps — once  reach- 
ing as  far  as  the  gold  mines  Tom  had  spoken  of,  and 
being  away  two  days. 

"Talk  about  pluggin'  away  at  a  job  in  the  city,  an' 
goin'  to  movin'  pictures  and  Sunday  picnics  for  amuse- 
ment!" he  would  burst  out.  "I  can't  see  what  was  eatin' 
me  that  I  ever  put  up  with  such  truck.  Here's  where  I 
oughta  ben  all  the  time,  or  some  place  like  it." 

He  was  filled  with  this  new  mode  of  life,  and  was 
continually  recalling  old  hunting  tales  of  his  father  and 
telling  them  to  Saxon. 

"Say,  I  don't  get  stiffened  any  more  after  an  all-day 
tramp,"  he  exulted.  "I'm  broke  in.  An'  some  day,  if 
I  meet  up  with  that  Hafler,  I'll  challenge  'm  to  a  tramp 
that'll  break  his  heart." 

"Foolish  boy,  always  wanting  to  play  everybody's  game 
and  beat  them  at  it,"  Saxon  laughed  delightedly. 

"Aw,  I  guess  you're  right,"  he  growled.  "Hafler  can 
always  out-walk  me.  He's  made  that  way.  But  some 
day,  just  the  same,  if  I  ever  see  'm  again,  I'll  invite  'm 
to  put  on  the  gloves  .  .  -  though  I  won't  be  mean 
enough  to  make  'm  as  sore  as  he  made  me." 


404  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

After  they  left  Post's  on  the  way  back  to  Carmel,  the 
condition  of  the  road  proved  the  wisdom  of  their  rejec- 
tion of  the  government  land.  They  passed  a  rancher's 
wagon  overturned,  a  second  wagon  with  a  broken  axle, 
and  the  stage  a  hundred  yards  down  the  mountain- 
side, where  it  had  fallen,  passengers,  horses,  road,  and 
all. 

"I  guess  they  just  about  quit  tryin'  to  use  this  road 
in  the  winter,"  Billy  said.  "It's  horse-killin'  an'  man-' 
killin',  an'  I  can  just  see  'm  freightin'  that  marble  out 
over  it  I  don't  think." 

Settling  down  at  Carmel  was  an  easy  matter.  The  Iron 
Man  had  already  departed  to  his  Catholic  college,  and  the 
"shack"  turned  out  to  be  a  three-roomed  house  comfort- 
ably furnished  for  housekeeping.  Hall  put  Billy  to  work 
on  the  potato  patch — a  matter  of  three  acres  which  the 
poet  farmed  erratically  to  the  huge  delight  of  his  crowd. 
He  planted  at  all  seasons,  and  it  was  accepted  by  the 
community  that  what  did  not  rot  in  the  ground  was 
evenly  divided  between  the  gophers  and  trespassing  cows. 
A  plow  was  borrowed,  a  team  of  horses  hired,  and  Billy 
took  hold.  Also  he  built  a  fence  around  the  patch,  and 
after  that  was  set  to  staining  the  shingled  roof  of  the  bun- 
galow. Hall  climbed  to  the  ridge-pole  to  repeat  his  warn- 
ing that  Billy  must  keep  away  from  his  wood-pile.  One 
morning  Hall  came  over  and  watched  Billy  chopping  wood 
for  Saxon.  The  poet  looked  on  covetously  as  long  as  he 
could  restrain  himself. 

"It's  plain  you  don't  know  how  to  use  an  axe,"  he 
sneered.  "Here,  let  me  show  you." 

He  worked  away  for  an  hour,  all  the  while  delivering 
an  exposition  on  the  art  of  chopping  wood. 

"Here,"  Billy  expostulated  at  last,  taking  hold  of  the 
axe.  "I'll  have  to  chop  a  cord  of  yours  now  in  order  to 
make  this  up  to  you." 

Hall  surrendered  the  axe  reluctantly. 

"Don't  let  me  catch  you  around  my  wood-pile,  that's 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     405 

all,"  he  threatened.  "My  wood-pile  is  my  castle,  and 
you've  got  to  understand  that." 

From  a  financial  standpoint,  Saxon  and  Billy  were  put- 
ting aside  much  money.  They  paid  no  rent,  their  simple 
living  was  cheap,  and  Billy  had  all  the  work  he  cared 
to  accept.  The  various  members  of  the  crowd  seemed  in 
ja  conspiracy  to  keep  him  busy.  It  was  all  odd  jobs,  but  he 
preferred  it  so,  for  it  enabled  him  to  suit  his  time  to 
Jim  Hazard's.  Each  day  they  boxed  and  took  a  long 
swim  through  the  surf.  When  Hazard  finished  his  morn- 
ing's writing,  he  would  whoop  through  the  pines  to  Billy, 
who  dropped  whatever  work  he  was  doing.  After  the 
swim,  they  would  take  a  fresh  shower  at  Hazard's  house, 
rub  t&ch  othw  down  in  training  camp  style,  and  be  ready 
for  the  noon  meal.  In  the  afternoon  Hazard  returned 
to  his  desk,  and  Billy  to  his  outdoor  work,  although,  still 
later,  they  often  met  for  a  few  miles'  run  over  the  hills. 
Training  was  a  matter  of  habit  to  both  men.  Hazard, 
when  he  had  finished  with  seven  years  of  football,  know- 
ing the  dire  death  that  awaits  the  big-muscled  athlete 
who  ceases  training  abruptly,  had  been  compelled  to  keep 
it  up.  Not  only  was  it  a  necessity,  but  he  had  grown  to 
like  it.  Billy  also  liked  it,  for  he  took  great  delight  in 
the  silk  of  his  body. 

Often,  in  the  early  morning,  gun  in  hand,  he  was  off 
with  Mark  Hall,  who  taught  him  to  shoot  and  hunt.  Hall 
had  dragged  a  shotgun  around  from  the  days  when  he 
wore  knee  pants,  and  his  keen  observing  eyes  and  knowl- 
edge of  the  habits  of  wild  life  were  a  revelation  to  Billy. 
This  part  of  the  country  was  too  settled  for  large  game, 
i  but  Billy  kept  Saxon  supplied  with  squirrels  and  quail, 
cottontails  and  jackrabbits,  snipe  and  wild  ducks.  And 
they  learned  to  eat  roasted  mallard  and  canvasback  in 
the  California  style  of  sixteen  minutes  in  a  hot  oven.  As 
he  became  expert  with  shotgun  and  rifle,  he  began  to  re- 
gret the  deer  and  the  mountain  lion  he  had  missed  down 
below  the  Sur ;  and  to  the  requirements  of  the  -farm  he 
and  Saxon  sought  he  added  plenty  of  game. 


406  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

But  it  was  not  all  play  in  Carmel.  That  portion  of  the 
community  which  Saxon  and  Billy  came  to  know,  "the 
crowd,"  was  hard-working.  Some  worked  regularly,  in 
the  morning  or  late  at  night.  Others  worked  spasmodi- 
cally, like  the  wild  Irish  playwright,  who  would  shut  him- 
self up  for  a  week  at  a  time,  then  emerge,  pale  and  drawn, 
to  play  like  a  madman  against  the  time  of  his  next  re- 
tirement. The  pale  and  youthful  father  of  a  family,  with1 
the  face  of  Shelley,  who  wrote  vaudeville  turns  for  a  liv- 
ing and  blank  verse  tragedies  and  sonnet  cycles  for  the 
despair  of  managers  and  publishers,  hid  himself  in  a 
concrete  cell  with  three-foot  walls,  so  piped,  that,  by  turn- 
ing a  lever,  the  whole  structure  spouted  water  upon  the 
impending  intruder.  But  in  the  main,  they  respected  each 
other's  work-time.  They  drifted  into  one  another's  houses 
as  the  spirit  prompted,  but  if  they  found  a  man  at  work 
they  went  their  way.  This  obtained  to  all  except  Mark 
Hall,  who  did  not  have  to  work  for  a  living;  and  he 
climbed  trees  to  get  away  from  popularity  and  compose 
in  peace. 

The  crowd  was  unique  in  its  democracy  and  solidarity. 
It  had  little  intercourse  with  the  sober  and  conventional 
part  of  Carmel.  This  section  constituted  the  aristocracy 
of  art  and  letters,  and  was  sneered  at  as  bourgeois.  In 
return,  it  looked  askance  at  the  crowd  with  its  rampant 
bohemianism.  The  taboo  extended  to  Billy  and  Saxon. 
Billy  took  up  the  attitude  of  the  clan  and  sought  no  work 
from  the  other  camp.  Nor  was  work  offered  him. 

Hall  kept  open  house.  The  big  living  room,  with  its 
huge  fireplace,  divans,  shelves  and  tables  of  books  and 
magazines,  was  the  center  of  things.  Here,  Billy  and 
Saxon  were  expected  to  be,  and  in  truth  found  them- 
selves to  be,  as  much  at  home  as  anybody.  Here,  when 
wordy  discussions  on  all  subjects  under  the  sun  were  not 
being  waged,  Billy  played  at  cut-throat  pedro,  horrible 
fives,  bridge,  and  pinochle.  Saxon,  a  favorite  of  the  young 
women,  sewed  with  them,  teaching  them  pretties  and  be- 
ing taught  in  fair  measure  in  return. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     407 

It  was  Billy,  before  they  had  been  in  Carmel  a  weekf 
who  said  shyly  to  Saxon: 

"Say,  you  can't  guess  how  I'm  missin'  all  your  nice 
things.  What's  the  matter  with  writin'  Tom  to  express  'm 
down?  When  we  start  trampin'  again,  we'll  express  'n? 
back." 

Saxon  wrote  the  letter,  and  all  that  day  her  heart  was 
singing.  Her  man  was  still  her  lover.  And  there  were  in 
his  eyes  all  the  old  lights  which  had  been  blotted  out  dur- 
ing the  nightmare  period  of  the  strike. 

"Some  pretty  nifty  skirts  around  here,  but  you've  got 
'em  all  beat,  or  I'm  no  judge,"  he  told  her.  And  again: 
"Oh,  I  love  you  to  death  anyway.  But  if  them  things 
ain't  shipped  down  there'll  be  a  funeral." 

Hall  and  his  wife  owned  a  pair  of  saddle  horses  which 
were  kept  at  the  livery  stable,  and  here  Billy  naturally 
gravitated.  The  stable  operated  the  stage  and  carried  the 
mails  between  Carmel  and  Monterey.  Also,  it  rented  out 
carriages  and  mountain  wagons  that  seated  nine  persons. 
With  carriages  and  wagons  a  driver  was  furnished.  The 
stable  often  found  itself  short  a  driver,  and  Billy  was 
quickly  called  upon.  He  became  an  extra  man  at  the 
stable.  He  received  three  dollars  a  day  at  such  times, 
and  drove  many  parties  around  the  Seventeen  Mile  Drive, 
up  Carmel  Valley,  and  down  the  coast  to  the  various  points 
and  beaches. 

"But  they're  a  pretty  uppish  sort,  most  of  'em,"  he 
said  to  Saxon,  referring  to  the  persons  he  drove.  "Al- 
ways Mister  Roberts  this,  an'  Mister  Roberts  that — all 
kinds  of  ceremony  so  as  to  make  me  not  forget  they  con- 
sider themselves  better 'n  me.  You  see,  I  ain't  exactly  a 
servant,  an'  yet  I  ain't  good  enough  for  them.  I'm  the 
driver — something  half  way  between  a  hired  man  and  a 
chauffeur.  Huh !  When  they  eat  they  give  me  my  lunch 
off  to  one  side,  or  afterward.  No  family  party  like  with 
Hall  an'  his  kind.  An'  that  crowd  to-day,  why,  they 
just  naturally  didn't  have  no  lunch  for  me  at  all.  After 
this,  always,  you  make  me  up  my  own  lunch.  I  won't 


408  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

be  beholdin'  to  'em  for  nothin',  the  damned  geezers.  An1 
you'd  a-died  to  seen  one  of  'em  try  to  give  me  a  tip. 
I  didn't  say  nothin'.  I  just  looked  at  'm  like  I  didn't  see 
'm,  an'  turned  away  casual-like  after  a  moment,  leavin'  him 
as  embarrassed  as  hell." 

Nevertheless,  Billy  enjoyed  the  driving,  never  more  so 
than  when  he  held  the  reins,  not  of  four  plodding  work- 
horses, but  of  four  fast  driving  animals,  his  foot  on  the 
powerful  brake,  and  swung  around  curves  and  along  dizzy 
cliff-rims  to  a  frightened  chorus  of  women  passengers. 
And  when  it  came  to  fyorse  judgment  and  treatment  of 
sick  and  injured  horses  even  the  owner  of  the  stable 
yielded  place  to  Billy. 

"I  could  get  a  regular  job  there  any  time,"  he  boasted 
quietly  to  Saxon.  "Why,  the  country's  just  sproutin" 
with  jobs  for  any  so-so  sort  of  a  fellow.  I  bet  anything, 
right  now,  if  I  said  to  the  boss  that  I'd  take  sixty  dollars 
an'  work  regular,  he'd  jump  for  me.  He's  hinted  as 

much.  And,  say!  Are  you  onta  the  fact  that  yours 

truly  has  learnt  a  new  trade?  Well  he  has.  He  could 
take  a  job  stage-drivin '  anywheres.  They  drive  six  on 
some  of  the  stages  up  in  Lake  County.  If  we  ever  get 
there,  I'll  get  thick  with  some  driver,  just  to  get  the  reins 
of  six  in  my  hands.  An'  I'll  have  you  on  the  box  beside 
me.  Some  goin'  that;  Some  goin'!" 

Billy  took  little  interest  in  the  many  discussions  waged 
in  Hall's  big  living  room.  "Wind-chewin',"  was  his  term 
for  it.  To  him  it  was  so  much  good  time  wasted  that 
might  be  employed  at  a  game  of  pedro,  or  going  swimming, 
or  wrestling  in  the  sand.  Saxon,  on  the  contrary,  de- 
lighted in  the  logomachy,  though  little  enough  she  under- 
stood of  it,  following  mainly  by  feeling,  and  once  in  a 
while  catching  a  high  light. 

But  what  she  could  never  comprehend  was  the  pessi- 
mism that  so  often  cropped  up.  The  wild  Irish  playwright 
had  terrible  spells  of  depression.  Shelley,  who  wrote 
vaudeville  turns  in  the  concrete  cell,  was  a  chronic  pessi- 
mist. St.  John,  a  young  magazine  writer,  was  an  anarchic 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     409 

disciple  of  Nietzsche.  Masson,  a  painter,  held  to  a  doc- 
trine of  eternal  recurrence  that  was  petrifying.  And  Hall, 
usually  so  merry,  could  outfoot  them  all  when  he  once  got 
started  on  the  cosmic  pathos  of  religion  and  the  gibbering 
anthropomorphisms  of  those  who  loved  not  to  die.  At 
such  times  Saxon  was  oppressed  by  these  sad  children  of 
art.  It  was  inconceivable  that  they,  of  all  people,  should 
be  so  forlorn. 

One  night  Hall  turned  suddenly  upon  Billy,  who  had 
been  following  dimly  and  who  only  comprehended  that  to 
them  everything  in  life  was  rotten  and  wrong. 

"Here,  you  pagan,  you,  you  stolid  and  flesh-fettered 
ox,  you  monstrosity  of  over-weening  and  perennial  health 
and  joy,  what  do  you  think  of  it?"  Hall  demanded. 

"Oh,  I've  had  my  troubles,"  Billy  answered,  speaking 
in  his  wonted  slow  way.  "I've  had  my  hard  times,  an* 
fought  a  losin'  strike,  an'  soaked  my  watch,  an'  ben  un- 
able to  pay  my  rent  or  buy  grub,  an'  slugged  scabs,  an' 
ben  slugged,  and  ben  thrown  into  jail  for  makin'  a  fool 
of  myself.  If  I  get  you,  I'd  be  a  whole  lot  better  to  be  a 
swell  hog  fattenin'  for  market  an'  nothin'  worryin',  than 
to  be  a  guy  sick  to  his  stomach  from  not  sawyin'  how 
the  world  is  made  or  from  wonderin'  what's  the  good  of 
anything." 

' '  That 's  good,  that  prize  hog, ' '  the  poet  laughed.  ' '  Least 
irritation,  least  effort — a  compromise  of  Nirvana  and  life. 
Least  irritation,  least  effort,  the  ideal  existence:  a  jelly- 
fish floating  in  a  tideless,  tepid,  twilight  sea." 

"But  you're  missin'  all  the  good  things,"  Billy  ob- 
jected. 

"Name  them,"  came  the  challenge. 

Billy  was  silent  a  moment.  To  him  life  seemed  a  large 
and  generous  thing.  He  felt  as  if  his  arms  ached  from 
inability  to  compass  it  all,  and  he  began,  haltingly  at 
first,  to  put  his  feeling  into  speech. 

"If  you'd  ever  stood  up  in  the  ring  an'  out-gamed  an' 
out-fought  a  man  as  good  as  yourself  for  twenty  rounds, 
you'd  get  what  I'm  drivin'  at.  Jim  Hazard  an'  I  get 


410  THE    VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

it  when  we  swim  out  through  the  surf  an'  laugh  in  the 
teeth  of  the  biggest  breakers  that  ever  pounded  the  beach, 
an'  when  we  come  out  from  the  shower,  rubbed  down 
and  dressed,  our  skin  an'  muscles  like  silk,  our  bodies 
an'  brains  all  a'tinglin'  like  silk.  .  .  ." 

He  paused  and  gave  up  from  sheer  inability  to  express 
ideas  that  were  nebulous  at  best  and  that  in  reality  were 
remembered  sensations. 

' '  Silk  of  the  body,  can  you  beat  it  ? "  he  concluded  lame- 
ly, feeling  that  he  had  failed  to  make  his  point,  embar- 
rassed by  the.  circle  of  listeners. 

"We  know  all  that,"  Hall  retorted.  "The  lies  of  the 
flesh.  Afterward  come  rheumatism  and  diabetes.  The 
wine  of  life  is  heady,  but  all  too  quickly  it  turns  to " 

"Uric  acid,"  interpolated  the  wild  Irish  playwright. 

"They's  plenty  more  of  the  good  things,"  Billy  took 
up  with  a  sudden  rush  of  words.  "Good  things  all  the 
way  up  from  juicy  porterhouse  and  the  kind  of  coffee  Mrs. 
Hall  makes  to.  .  .  ."  He  hesitated  at  what  he  was 
about  to  say,  then  took  it  at  a  plunge.  "To  a  woman 
you  can  love  an'  that  loves  you.  Just  take  a  look  at  Saxon 
there  with  the  ukulele  in  her  lap.  There's  where  I  got 
the  jellyfish  in  the  dishwater  an'  the  prize  hog  skinned 
to  death." 

A  shout  of  applause  and  great  hand-clapping  went  up 
from  the  girls,  and  Billy  looked  painfully  uncomfortable. 

"But  suppose  the  silk  goes  out  of  your  body  till  you 
creak  like  a  rusty  wheelbarrow?"  Hall  pursued.  "Sup- 
pose, just  suppose,  Saxon  went  away  with  another  man.' 
"What  then?"' 

Billy  considered  a  space. 

"Then  it'd  be  me  for  the  dishwater  an'  the  jellyfish, 
I  guess."  He  straightened  up  in  his  chair  and  threw 
back  his  shoulders  unconsciously  as  he  ran  a  hand  over 
his  biceps  and  swelled  it.  Then  he  took  another  look  at 
Saxon.  "But  thank  the  Lord  I  still  got  a  wallop  in  both 
my  arms  an'  a  wife  to  fill  'em  with  love." 

Again  the  girls  applauded,  and  Mrs.  Hall  cried: 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     411 

1 '  Look  at  Saxon !  She  blushing !  What  have  you  to 

say  for  yourself?" 

"That  no  woman  could  be  happier,"  she  stammered, 
"and  no  queen  as  proud.  And  that " 

She  completed  the  thought  by  strumming  on  the  uku- 
lele and  singing: 

"De  Lawd  move  in  er  mischievous  way 
His  blunders  to  perform." 

"I  give  you  best,"  Hall  grinned  to  Billy. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  Billy  disclaimed  modestly. 
"You've  read  so  much  I  guess  you  know  more  about  every- 
thing than  I  do." 

"Oh!  Oh!"  "Traitor!"  "Taking  it  all  back!"  tke 
girls  cried  variously. 

Billy  took  heart  of  courage,  reassured  them  with  a  slow 
smile,  and  said: 

"Just  the  same  I'd  sooner  be  myself  than  have  book 
indigestion.  An'  as  for  Saxon,  why,  one  kiss  of  her  lips 
is  w»rth  more'n  all  the  libraries  in  the  world." 


CHAPTER  X 

"THERE  must  be  hills  and  valleys,  and  rich  land,  and 
streams  of  clear  water,  good  wagon  roads  and  a  railroad 
not  too  far  away,  plenty  of  sunshine,  and  cold  enough 
at  night  to  need  blankets,  and  not  only  pines  but  plenty 
of  other  kinds  of  trees,  with  open  spaces  to  pasture  Billy's 
horses  and  cattle,  and  deer  and  rabbits  for  him  to  shoot, 
and  lots  and  lots  of  redwood  trees,  and  .  .  .  and 
....  well,  and  no  fog,"  Saxon  concluded  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  farm  she  and  Billy  sought. 

Mark  Hall  laughed  delightedly. 

"And  nightingales  roosting  in  all  the  trees,"  he  cried; 
"flowers  that  neither  fail  nor  fade,  bees  without  stings, 
honey  dew  every  morning,  showers  of  manna  between- 
whiles,  fountains  of  youth  and  quarries  of  philosopher's 
stones — why,  I  know  the  very  place.  Let  me  show  you." 

She  waited  while  he  pored  over  road-maps  of  the  state. 
Failing  in  them,  he  got  out  a  big  atlas,  and,  though  all 
the  countries  of  the  world  were  in  it,  he  could  not  find 
what  he  was  after. 

"Never  mind,"  he  said.  "Come  over  to-night  and  I'll 
be  able  to  show  you." 

That  evening  he  led  her  out  on  the  veranda  to  the  tele- 
scope, and  she  found  herself  looking  through  it  at  the  full 
moon. 

"Somewhere  up  there  in  some  valley  you'll  find  that 
farm,"  he  teased. 

Mrs.  Hall  looked  inquiringly  at  them  as  they  returned 
inside. 

"I've  been  showing  her  a  valley  in  the  moon  where  she 
expects  to  go  farming,"  he  laughed. 

"We  started  out  prepared  to  go  any  distance,"  Saxon 
said.  "And  if  it's  to  the  moon,  I  expect  we  can  make  it." 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     413 

"But  my  dear  child,  you  can't  expect  to  find  such  a 
paradise  on  the  earth,"  Hall  continued.  "For  instance, 
you  can't  have  redwoods  without  fog.  They  go  together. 
The  redwoods  grow  only  in  the  fog  belt." 

Saxon  debated  a  while. 

"Well,  we  could  put  up  with  a  little  fog,"  she  con- 
ceded, " almost  anything  to  have  redwoods.  I  don't 

know  what  a  quarry  of  philosopher's  stones  is  like,  but 
if  it's  anything  like  Mr.  Hafler's  marble  quarry,  and 
there's  a  railroad  handy,  I  guess  we  could  manage  to 
Worry  along.  And  you  don't  have  to  go  to  the  moon  for 
honey  dew.  They  scrape  it  off  of  the  leaves  of  the  bushes 
up  in  Nevada  County.  I  know  that  for  a  fact,  because 
my  father  told  my  mother  about  it,  and  she  told  me." 

A  little  later  in  the  evening,  the  subject  of  farming 
having  remained  uppermost,  Hall  swept  off  into  a  dia- 
tribe against  the  "gambler's  paradise,"  which  was  his 
epithet  for  the  United  States. 

""When  you  think  of  the  glorious  chance,"  he  said.  "A 
new  country,  bounded  by  the  oceans,  situated  just  right  in 
latitude,  with  the  richest  land  and  vastest  natural  re- 
sources of  any  country  in  the  world,  settled  by  immigrants 
who  had  thrown  off  all  the  leading  strings  of  the  Old 
"World  and  were  in  the  humor  for  democracy.  There  was 
only  one  thing  to  stop  them  from  perfecting  the  democ- 
racy they  started,  and  that  thing  was  greediness. 

"They  started  gobbling  everything  in  sight  like  a  lot 
of  swine,  and  while  they  gobbled  democracy  went  to  smash. 
Gobbling  became  gambling.  It  was  a  nation  of  tin 
horns.  Whenever  a  man  lost  his  stake,  all  he  had  to  do 
was  to  chase  the  frontier  west  a  few  miles  and  get  another 
stake.  They  moved  over  the  face  of  the  land  like  so  many 
locusts.  They  destroyed  everything — the  Indians,  the 
soil,  the  forests,  just  as  they  destroyed  the  buffalo  and  the 
passenger  pigeon.  Their  morality  in  business  and  poli- 
tics was  gambler  morality.  Their  laws  were  gambling 
laws— how  to  play  the  game.  Everybody  played.  There- 
fore, hurrah  for  the  game.  Nobody  objected,  because  no- 


414  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

body  was  unable  to  play.  As  I  said,  the  losers  chased  the 
frontier  for  fresh  stakes.  The  winner  of  to-day,  broke 
to-morrow,  on  the  day  following  might  be  riding  his  luck 
to  royal  flushes  on  five-card  draws. 

' '  So  they  gobbled  and  gambled  from  the  Atlantic  to  the 
Pacific,  until  they'd  swined  a  whole  continent.  When 
they'd  finished  with  the  lands  and  forests  and  mines,  they 
•turned  back,  gambling  for  any  little  stakes  they'd  over- 
looked, gambling  for  franchises  and  monopolies,  using 
politics  to  protect  their  crooked  deals  and  brace  games. 
And  democracy  gone  clean  to  smash. 

"And  then  was  the  funniest  time  of  all.  The  losers 
couldn't  get  any  more  stakes,  while  the  winners  went  on 
gambling  among  themselves.  The  losers  could  only  stand 
around  with  their  hands  in  their  pockets  and  look  on. 
"When  they  got  hungry,  they  went,  hat  in  hand,  and  begged 
the  successful  gamblers  for  a  job.  The  losers  went  to 
work  for  the  winners,  and  they've  been  working  for  them 
ever  since,  and  democracy  side-tracked  up  Salt  Creek. 
You,  Billy  Roberts,  have  never  had  a  hand  in  the  game 
in  your  life.  That's  because  your  people  were  among  the 
also-rans." 

"How  about  yourself?"  Billy  asked.  "I  ain't  seen  you 
holdin'  any  hands." 

"I  don't  have  to.    I  don't  count.    I  am  a  parasite." 

"What's  that?" 

"A  flea,  a  woodtick,  anything  that  gets  something  for 
nothing.  I  batten  on  the  mangy  hides  of  the  working- 
men.  I  don't  have  to  gamble.  I  don't  have  to  work.  My 

father  left  me  enough  of  his  winnings.  Oh,  don't 

preen  yourself,  my  boy.  Your  folks  were  just  as  bad  as 
mine.  But  yours  lost,  and  mine  won,  and  so  you  plow  in 
my  potato  patch." 

"I  don't  see  it,"  Billy  contended  stoutly.  "A  man 
with  gumption  can  win  out  to-day " 

"On  government  land?"  Hall  asked  quickly. 

Billy  swallowed  and  acknowledged  the  stab. 

"Just  the  same  he  can  win  out,"  he  reiterated 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     415 

"Surely— he  can  win  a  job  from  some  other  fellow?  A 
young  husky  with  a  good  head  like  yours  can  win  jobs 
anywhere.  But  think  of  the  handicaps  on  the  fellows  who 
lose.  How  many  tramps  have  you  met  along  the  road  who 
could  get  a  job  driving  four  horses  for  the  Carmel  Livery 
Stable?  And  some  of  them  were  as  husky  as  you  when 
they  were  young.  And  on  top  of  it  all  you've  got  no 
shout  coming.  It's  a  mighty  big  come-down  from  gamb- 
ling for  a  continent  to  gambling  for  a  job." 

"Just  the  same "  Billy  recommenced. 

"Oh,  you've  got  it  in  your  blood,"  Hall  cut  him  off 
cavalierly.  "And  why  not?  Everybody  in  this  country 
has  been  gambling  for  generations.  It  was  in  the  air  when 
you  were  born.  You've  breathed  it  all  your  life.  You, 
who've  never  had  a  white  chip  in  the  game,  still  go  on 
shouting  for  it  and  capping  for  it." 

' '  But  what  are  all  of  us  losers  to  do  ?  "  Saxon  inquired. 

"Call  in  the  police  and  stop  the  game,"  Hall  recom- 
mended. "It's  crooked." 

Saxon  frowned. 

"Do  what  your  forefathers  didn't  do,"  he  amplified. 
"Go  ahead  and  perfect  democracy." 

She  remembered  a  remark  of  Mercedes. 

"A  friend  of  mine  says  that  democracy  is  an  enchant- 
ment." 

"It  is — in  a  gambling  joint.  There  are  a  million  boys 
in  our  public  schools  right  now  swallowing  the  gump  of 
canal  boy  to  President,  and  millions  of  worthy  citizens 
who  sleep  sound  every  night  in  the  belief  that  they  have 
a  say  in  running  the  country." 

"You  talk  like  my  brother  Tom,"  Saxon  said,  failing 
to  comprehend.  "If  we  all  get  into  politics  and  work 
hard  for  something  better  maybe  we'll  get  it  after  a  thou- 
sand years  or  so.  But  I  want  it  now."  She  clenched 
her  hands  passionately.  "I  can't  wait;  I  want  it  now." 

"But  that  is  just  what  I've  been  telling  you,  my  dear 
girl.  That's  what's  the  trouble  with  all  the  losers.  They 
can't  wait.  They  want  it  now — a  stack  of  chips  and  a 


116  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

fling  at  the  game.  Well,  they  won't  get  it  now.  That's 
what's  the  matter  with  you,  chasing  a  valley  in  the  moon. 
That's  what's  the  matter  with  Billy,  aching  right  now 
for  a  chance  to  win  ten  cents  from  me  at  pedro  and  cuss- 
ing wind-chewing  under  his  "breath." 

"Gee! you'd  make  a  good  soap-boxer,"  commented 

.Billy. 

"And  I'd  be  a  soap-boxer  if  I  didn't  have  the  spending 
of  my  father '«  ill-gotten  gains.  It's  none  of  my  affair. 
Let  them  rot.  They'd  be  just  as  bad  if  they  were  on  top. 
It's  all  a  mess — blind  bats,  hungry  swine,  and  filthy  buz- 
zards  " 

Here  Mrs.  Hall  interfered. 

"Now,  Mark,  you  stop  that,  or  you'll  be  getting  the 
blues." 

He  tossed  his  mop  of  hair  and  laughed  with  an  effort. 

"No  I  won't,"  he  denied.  "I'm  going  to  get  ten  cents 
from  Billy  at  a  game  of  pedro.  He  won't  have  a  look  in." 

Saxon  and  Billy  flourished  in  the  genial  human  atmos- 
phere of  Carmel.  They  appreciated  in  their  own  estima- 
tion. Saxon  felt  that  she  was  something  more  than  a 
laundry  girl  and  the  wife  of  a  union  teamster.  She  was 
no  longer  pent  in  the  narrow  working  class  environment 
of  a  Pine  street  neighborhood.  Life  had  grown  opulent. 
They  fared  better  physically,  materially,  and  spiritually; 
and  all  this  was  reflected  in  their  features,  in  the  car- 
riage of  their  bodies.  She  knew  Billy  had  never  been 
handsomer  nor  in  more  splendid  bodily  condition.  He 
swore  he  had  a  harem,  and  that  she  was  his  second  wife — - 
twice  as  beautiful  as  the  first  one  he  had  married.  And 
she  demurely  confessed  to  him  that  Mrs.  Hall  and  sev- 
eral others  of  the  matrons  had  enthusiastically  admired 
her  form  one  day  when  in  for  a  cold  dip  in  Carmel  river. 
They  had  got  around  her,  and  called  her  Venus,  and  made 
her  crouch  and  assume  different  poses. 

Billy  understood  the  Venus  reference;  for  a  marble 
one,  with  broken  arms,  stood  in  Hall's  living  room,  and 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     417 

the  poet  had  told  him  the  world  worshiped  it  as  the  per- 
fection of  female  form. 

"I  always  said  you  had  Annette  Kellerman  beat  a  mile," 
Billy  said;  and  so  proud  was  his  air  of  possession  that 
Saxon  blushed  and  trembled,  and  hid  her  hot  face  against 
his  breast. 

The  men  in  the  crowd  were  open  in  their  admiration 
of  Saxon,  in  an  above-board  manner.  But  she  made  no 
mistake.  She  did  not  lose  her  head.  There  was  no  chance 
of  that,  for  her  love  for  Billy  beat  more  strongly  than 
ever.  Nor  was  she  guilty  of  over-appraisal.  She  knew 
him  for  what  he  was,  and  loved  him  with  open  eyes. 
He  had  no  book  learning,  no  art,  like  the  other  men.  His 
grammar  was  bad;  she  knew  that,  just  as  she  knew  that 
he  would  never  mend  it.  Yet  she  would  not  have  exchanged 
him  for  any  of  the  others,  not  even  for  Mark  Hall  with 
the  princely  heart  whom  she  loved  much  in  the  same 
way  that  she  loved  his  wife. 

For  that  matter,  she  found  in  Billy  a  certain  health  and 
Tightness,  a  certain  essential  integrity,  which  she  prized 
more  highly  than  all  book  learning  and  bank  accounts. 
It  was  by  virtue  of  this  health,  and  Tightness,  and  in- 
tegrity, that  he  had  beaten  Hall  in  argument  the  night  the 
poet  was  on  the  pessimistic  rampage.  Billy  had  beaten 
him,  not  with  the  weapons  of  learning,  but  just  by  being 
himself  and  by  speaking  out  the  truth  that  was  in  him. 
Best  of  all,  he  had  not  even  known  that  he  had  beaten,  and 
had  taken  the  applause  as  good-natured  banter.  But 
Saxon  knew,  though  she  could  scarcely  tell  why;  and 
$he  would  always  remember  how  the  wife  of  Shelley  had 
whispered  to  her  afterward  with  shining  eyes:  "Oh, 
Saxon,  you  must  be  so  happy." 

Were  Saxon  driven  to  speech  to  attempt  to  express 
what  Billy  meant  to  her,  she  would  have  done  it  with 
the  simple  word  "man."  Always  he  was  that  to  her.  Al- 
ways in  glowing  splendor,  that  was  his  connotation — 
MAN.  Sometimes,  by  herself,  she  would  all  but  weep  with 
joy  at  recollection  of  his  way  of  informing  some  trucu- 


418  THE    VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

lent  male  that  lie  was  standing  on  his  foot.    " Get  off 

your  foot.  You're  standin'  on  it."  It  was  Billy!  It 
was  magnificently  Billy.  And  it  was  this  Billy  who  loved 
her.  She  knew  it.  She  knew  it  by  the  pulse  that  only 
a  woman  knows  how  to  gauge.  He  loved  her  less  wildly, 
it  was  true;  but  more  fondly,  more  maturely.  It  was 
the  love  that  lasted — if  only  they  did  not  go  back  tc  the 
city  where  the  beautiful  things  of  the  spirit  perished  and 
the  beast  bared  its  fangs. 

In  the  early  spring,  Mark  Hall  and  his  wife  went  to 
New  York,  the  two  Japanese  servants  of  the  bungalow 
were  dismissed,  and  Saxon  and  Billy  were  installed  as 
caretakers.  Jim  Hazard,  too,  departed  on  his  yearly  visit 
to  Paris;  and  though  Billy  missed  him,  he  continued  his 
long  swims  out  through  the  breakers.  Hall's  two  saddle 
horses  had  been  left  in  hi?  charge,  and  Saxon  made  herself 
a  pretty  cross-saddle  riding  costume  of  tawny-brown 
corduroy  that  matched  the  glints  in  her  hair.  Billy  no 
longer  worked  at  odd  jobs.  As  extra  driver  at  the  stable 
he  earned  more  than  they  spent,  and,  in  preference  to 
cash,  he  taught  Saxon  to  ride,  and  was  out  and  away  with 
her  over  the  country  on  all-day  trips.  A  favorite  ride  was 
around  by  the  coast  to  Monterey,  where  he  taught  her  to 
swim  in  the  big  Del  Monte  tank.  They  would  come  home 
in  the  evening  across  the  hills.  Also,  she  took  to  follow- 
ing him  on  his  early  morning  hunts,  and  life  seemed  one 
long  vacation. 

"I'll  tell  you  one  thing,"  he  said  to  Saxon,  one  day, 
'a*  they  drew  their  horses  to  a  halt  and  gazed  down  into 
Carmel  Valley.  "I  ain't  never  going  to  work  steady  for 
another  man  for  wages  as  long  as  I  live." 

"Work  isn't  everything,"  she  acknowledged. 

"I  should  guess  not.  Why,  look  here,  Saxon,  what'd  it 
mean  if  I  worked  teamin'  in  Oakland  for  a  million  dollars 
a  day  for  a  million  years  and  just  had  to  go  on  stayin* 
there  an'  livin'  the  way  we  used  to?  It'd  mean  work 
all  day,  three  squares,  an'  movin'  pictures  for  recreation. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     419 

Movin'  pictures!  Huh!  We're  livin'  movin'  pictures 
these  days.  I'd  sooner  have  one  year  like  what  we're 
bavin'  here  in  Carmel  and  then  die,  than  a  thousan'  mil- 
lion years  like  on  Pine  street." 

Saxon  had  warned  the  Halls  by  letter  that  she  and 
Billy  intended  starting  on  their  search  for  the  valley  in 
the  moon  as  soon  as  the  first  of  summer  arrived.  Fortu- 
nately, the  poet  was  put  to  no  inconvenience,  for  Bideaux, 
the  Iron  Man  with  the  basilisk  eyes,  had  abandoned  his 
dreams  of  priesthood  and  decided  to  become  an  actor. 
He  arrived  at  Carmel  from  the  Catholic  college  in  time 
to  take  charge  of  the  bungalow. 

Much  to  Saxon's  gratification,  the  crowd  was  loth  to 
see  them  depart.  The  owner  of  the  Carmel  stable  offered 
to  put  Billy  in  charge  at  ninety  dollars  a  month.  Also, 
he  received  a  similar  offer  from  the  stable  in  Pacific  <jrove= 

' '  Whither  away  ? ' '  the  wild  Irish  playwright  hailed  them 
on  the  station  platform  at  Monterey.  He  was  just  return- 
ing from  New  York. 

"To  a  valley  in  the  moon,"  Saxon  answered  gaily. 

He  regarded  their  business-like  packs. 

' '  By  George ! "  he  cried.  "  1 11  do  it  i  By  George !  Let 
me  come  along."  Then  his  face  fell.  "And  I've  signed 

the  contract, "  he  groaned.  "Three  acts!  Say,  you're 

Sacky.  And  this  time  of  year,  too." 


CHAPTER   XI 

""WE  hiked  into  Monterey  last  winter,  but  we're  ridin1 
OYit  now,  b'gosh!"  Billy  said  as  the  train  pulled  out  and 
they  leaned  back  in  their  seats. 

They  had  decided  against  retracing  their  steps  over 
the  ground  already  traveled,  and  took  the  train  to  San 
Francisco.  They  had  been  warned  by  Mark  Hall  of  the 
enervation  of  the  south,  and  were  bound  north  for  their 
blanket  climate.  Their  intention  was  to  cross  the  Bay 
to  Sausalito  and  wander  up  through  the  coast  counties. 
Here,  Hall  had  told  them,  they  would  find  the  true  home 
of  the  redwood.  But  Billy,  in  the  smoking  car  for  a 
cigarette,  seated  himself  beside  a  man  who  was  destined  to 
deflect  them  from  their  course.  H«  was  a  keen-faced, 
dark-eyed  man,  undoubtedly  a  Jew;  and  Billy,  remem- 
bering Saxon's  admonition  always  to  ask  questions, 
watched  his  opportunity  and  started  a  conversation.  It 
took  but  a  little  while  to  learn  that  Gunston  was  a  com- 
mission merchant,  and  to  realize  that  the  content  of  his 
talk  was  too  valuable  for  Saxon  to  lose.  Promptly,  when 
he  saw  that  the  other's  cigar  was  finished,  Billy  invited 
him  into  the  next  car  to  meet  Saxon.  Billy  would  have 
been  incapable  of  such  an  act  prior  to  his  sojourn  in 
Carmel.  That  much  at  least  he  had  acquired  of  social 
facility. 

"He's  just  ben  tellin'  me  about  the  potato  kings,  and 
I  wanted  him  to  tell  you,"  Billy  explained  to  Saxon  after 
the  introduction.  "  Go  on  and  tell  her,  Mr.  Gunston,  about 
that  fan  tan  sucker  that  made  nineteen  thousan'  last  year 
in  celery  an'  asparagus." 

"I  was  just  telling  your  husband  about  the  way  the 
Chinese  make  things  go  up  the  San  Joaquin  river.  It 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     421 

would  be  worth  your  while  to  go  up  there  and  look  around. 
It's  the  good  season  now — too  early  for  mosquitoes.  You 
?an  get  off  the  train  at  Black  Diamond  or  Antioeh  and 
^travel  around  among  the  big  farming  islands  on  the  steam- 
ers and  launches.  The  fares  are  cheap,  and  you'll  find 
some  of  those  big  gasoline  boats,  like  the  Duchess  and 
Princess,  more  like  big  steamboats." 

''Tell  her  about  Chow  Lam,"  Billy  urged. 

The  commission  merchant  leaned  back  and  laughed,      i 

"Chow  Lam,  several  years  ago,  was  a  broken-down  fan 
tan  player.  He  hadn't  a  cent,  and  his  health  was  going 
back  on  him.  He  had  worn  out  his  back  with  twenty  years' 
work  in  the  gold  mines,  washing  over  the  tailings  of  the 
early  miners.  And  whatever  he'd  made  he'd  lost  at  gam- 
bling. Also,  he  was  in  debt  three  hundred  dollars  to  the 
Six  Companies — you  know,  they're  Chinese  affairs.  And, 
remember,  this  was  only  seven  years  ago — health  break- 
ing down,  three  hundred  in  debt,  and  no  trade.  Chow 
Lam  blew  into  Stockton  and  got  a  job  on  the  peat  landa 
at  day's  wages.  It  was  a  Chinese  company,  down  on 
Middle  Eiver,  that  farmed  celery  and  asparagus.  This 
was  when  he  got  onto  himself  and  took  stock  of  himself. 
A  quarter  of  a  century  in  the  United  States,  back  not 
so  strong  as  it  used  to  was,  and  not  a  penny  laid  by 
for  his  return  to  China.  He  saw  how  the  Chinese  in  the 
company  had  done  it — saved  their  wages  and  bought 
a  share. 

"He  saved  his  wages  for  two  years,  and  bought  one 
share  in  a  thirty-share  company.  That  was  only  five  years 
ago.  They  leased  three  hundred  acres  of  peat  land  from 
a  white  man  who  preferred  traveling  in  Europe.  Out  of 
the  profits  of  that  one  share  in  the  first  year,  he  bought 
two  shares  in  another  company.  And  in  a  year  more,  out 
of  the  three  shares,  he  organized  a  company  of  his  own. 
One  year  of  this,  with  bad  luck,  and  he  just  broke  even. 
That  brings  it  up  to  three  years  ago.  The  following  year, 
bumper  crops,  he  netted  four  thousand.  The  next  year  it 
was  five  thousand.  And  last  year  he  cleaned  up  nineteen 


422  THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

thousand  dollars.  Pretty  good,  eh,  for  old  broken-down 
Chow  Lam?" 

"My!"  was  all  Saxon  could  say. 

Her  eager  interest,  however,  incited  the  commission  mer- 
chant to  go  on. 

,  "Look  at  Sing  Kee— the  Potato  King  of  Stockton.  1 
know  him  well.  I've  had  more  large  deals  with  him  and 
made  less  money  than  with  any  man  I  know.  He  was  only 
a  coolie,  and  he  smuggled  himself  into  the  United  States 
twenty  years  ago.  Started  at  day's  wages,  then  peddled 
vegetables  in  a  couple  of  baskets  slung  on  a  stick,  and 
after  that  opened  up  a  store  in  Chinatown  in  San  Fran- 
cisco. But  he  had  a  head  on  him,  and  he  was  soon  onto 
the  curves  of  the  Chinese  farmers  that  dealt  at  his  store 
The  store  couldn't  make  money  fast  enough  to  suit  him, 
He  headed  up  the  San  Joaquin.  Didn't  do  much  for 
a  couple  of  years  except  keep  his  eyes  peeled.  Then  he 
jumped  in  and  leased  twelve  hundred  acres  at  seven  dollars 
an  acre " 

"My  God!"  Billy  said  in  an  awe-struck  voice.  "Eight 
thousan',  four  hundred  dollars  just  for  rent  the  first  year. 
I  know  five  hundred  acres  I  can  buy  for  three  dollars  an 
acre. ' ' 

"Will  it  grow  potatoes?"  Gunston  asked. 

Billy  shook  his  head.     "Nor  nothin'  else,  I  guess." 

All  three  laughed  heartily  and  the  commission  mer- 
chant resumed: 

"That  seven  dollars  was  only  for  the  land.  Possibly 
,you  know  what  it  costs  to  plow  twelve  hundred  acres  7"1 

Billy  nodded  solemnly. 

"And  he  got  a  hundred  and  sixty  sacks  to  the  acre  that 
year,"  Gunston  continued.  "Potatoes  were  selling  at  fifty 
cents.  My  father  was  at  the  head  of  our  concern  at  the 
time,  so  I  know  for  a  fact.  And  Sing  Kee  could  have 
sold  at  fifty  cents  and  made  money.  But  did  he?  Trust 
a  Chinaman  to  know  the  market.  They  can  skin  the  com- 
mission merchants  at  it.  Sing  Kee  held  on.  When  'most 
everybody  else  had  sold,  potatoes  began  to  climb.  He 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     423 

laughed  at  our  buyers  when  we  offered  him  sixty  cents, 
seventy  cents,  a  dollar.  Do  you  want  to  know  what  he 
finally  did  sell  for?  One  dollar  and  sixty-five  a  sack. 
Suppose  they  actually  cost  him  forty  cents.  A  hundred 
and  sixty  times  twelve  hundred  ...  let  me  see 
,  .  .  twelve  times  nought  is  nought  and  twelve  times 
sixteen  is  a  hundred  and  ninety-two  ...  a  hundred 
and  ninety-two  thousand  sacks  at  a  dollar  and  a  quarter 
net  .  .  .  four  into  a  hundred  and  ninety-two  is  forty- 
eight,  plus,  is  two  hundred  and  forty — there  you  are, 
two  hundred  and  forty  thousand  dollars  clear  profit  oa 
that  year's  deal." 

* 'An'  him  a  Chink,"  Billy  mourned  disconsolately.  He 
turned  to  Saxon.  "They  ought  to  be  some  new  country 

for  us  white  folks  to  go  to.  Gosh!  we're  settin'  on 

the  stoop  all  right,  all  right." 

"But,  of  course,  that  was  unusual,"  Gunston  hastened 
to  qualify.  "There  was  a  failure  of  potatoes  in  other 
districts,  and  a  corner,  and  in  some  strange  way  Sing  Kee 
was  dead  on.  He  never  made  profits  like  that  again.  But 
he  goes  ahead  steadily.  Last  year  he  had  four  thousand 
acres  in  potatoes,  a  thousand  in  asparagus,  five  hundred 
in  celery  and  five  hundred  in  beans.  And  he's  running 
six  hundred  acres  in  seeds.  No  matter  what  happens  to 
one  or  two  crops,  he  can't  lose  on  all  of  them." 

"I've  seen  twelve  thousand  acres  of  apple  trees,"  Saxon 
said.  "And  I'd  like  to  see  four  thousand  acres  in  po- 
tatoes." 

"And  we  will,"  Billy  rejoined  with  great  positiveness. 
'It's  us  for  the  San  Joaquin.  "We  don't  know  what's  in 
our  country.  No  wonder  we're  out  on  the  stoop." 

"You'll  find  lots  of  kings  up  there,"  Gunston  related. 
"Yep  Hong  Lee — they  call  him  'Big  Jim,'  and  Ah  Pock, 
and  Ah  Whang,  and — then  there's  Shima,  the  Japanese 
potato  king.  He's  worth  several  millions.  Lives  like  a 
prince. ' ' 

"Why  don't  Americans  succeed  like  that?"  asked  Saxon. 

"Because  they  won't,  I  guess.     There's  nothing  to  stop 


424  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

them  except  themselves.  I'll  tell  you  one  thing,  though—- 
give me  the  Chinese  to  deal  with.  He's  honest.  His  word 
is  as  good  as  his  bond.  If  he  says  he'll  do  a  thing,  he'll 
do  it.  And,  anyway,  the  white  man  doesn't  know  how  to 
farm.  Even  the  up-to-date  white  farmer  is  content  with 
one  crop  at  a  time  and  rotation  of  crops.  Mr.  John  China- 
man goes  him  one  better,  and  grows  two  crops  at  one  time 
on  the  same  soil.  I've  seen  it — radishes  and  carrots,  two 
crops,  sown  at  one  time." 

' '  Which  don 't  stand  to  reason, ' '  Billy  objected.  ' '  They  'd 
be  only  a  half  crop  of  each." 

"Another  guess  coming,"  Gunston  jeered.  "Carrots 
have  to  be  thinned  when  they're  so  far  along.  So  do 
radishes.  But  carrots  grow  slow.  Radishes  grow  fast. 
The  slow-going  carrots  serve  the  purpose  of  thinning  the 
radishes.  And  when  the  radishes  are  pulled,  ready  for 
market,  that  thins  the  carrots,  which  come  along  later. 
You  can't  beat  the  Chink." 

"Don't  see  why  a  white  man  can't  do  what  a  Chink 
can,"  protested  Billy. 

"That  sounds  all  right,"  Gunston  replied.  "The  only 
objection  is  that  the  white  man  doesn't.  The  Chink  is 
busy  all  the  time,  and  he  keeps  the  ground  just  as  busy. 
He  has  organization,  system.  Who  ever  heard  of  white 
farmers  keeping  books?  The  Chink  does.  No  guess 
work  with  him.  He  knows  just  where  he  stands,  to 
a  cent,  on  any  crop  at  any  moment.  And  he  knows  the 
market.  He  plays  both  ends.  How  he  does  it  is  beyond 
me,  but  he  knows  the  market  better  than  we  commission 
•merchants. 

"Then,  again,  he's  patient  but  not  stubborn.  Suppose 
he  does  make  a  mistake,  and  gets  in  a  crop,  and  then 
finds  the  market  is  wrong.  In  such  a  situation  the  white 
man  gets  stubborn  and  hangs  on  like  a  bulldog.  But  not 
the  Chink.  He's  going  to  minimize  the  losses  of  that  mis- 
take. That  land  has  got  to  work,  and  make  money.  With- 
out a  quiver  or  a  regret,  the  moment  he's  learned  his 
error,  he  puts  his  plows  into  that  crop,  turns  it  under, 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     425 

and  plants  something  else.  He  has  the  savve.  He  can 
look  at  a  sprout,  just  poked  up  out  of  the  ground, 
and  tell  how  it's  going  to  turn  out— whether  it  will  head 
up  or  won't  head  up;  or  if  it's  going  to  head  up  good, 
medium,  or  bad.  That's  one  end.  Take  the  other  end. 
He  controls  his  crop.  He  forces  it  or  holds  it  back, 
with  an  eye  on  the  market.  And  when  the  market  isj 
just  right,  there's  his  crop,  ready  to  deliver,  timed  to  the 
minute. ' ' 

The  conversation  with  Gunston  lasted  hours,  and  the 
more  he  talked  of  the  Chinese  and  their  farming  ways  the 
more  Saxon  became  aware  of  a  growing  dissatisfaction. 
She  did  not  question  the  facts.  The  trouble  was  that 
they  were  not  alluring.  Somehow,  she  could  not  find  place 
for  them  in  her  valley  of  the  moon.  It  was  not  until  the 
genial  Jew  left  the  train  that  Billy  gave  definite  statement 
to  what  was  vaguely  bothering  her. 

"Huh!  We  ain't  Chinks.  We're  white  folks.  Does  a 
Chink  ever  want  to  ride  a  horse,  hell-bent  for  election  an' 
havin '  a  good  time  of  it  ?  Did  you  ever  see  a  Chink  go  swim- 

min'  out  through  the  breakers  at  Carmel?  or  boxin', 

wrestlin',  runnin'  an'  jumpin'  for  the  sport  of  it?  Did  you 
ever  see  a  Chink  take  a  shotgun  on  his  arm,  tramp  six 
miles,  an '  come  back  happy  with  one  measly  rabbit  ?  What 
does  a  Chink  do?  Work  his  damned  head  off.  That's  all 
he's  good  for.  To  hell  with  work,  if  that's  the  whole 
of  the  game — an'  I've  done  my  share  of  work,  an'  I  can 
work  alongside  of  any  of  'em.  But  what's  the  good?  If 
they's  one  thing  I've  learned  solid  since  you  an'  me  hitc 
the  road,  Saxon,  it  is  that  work's  the  least  part  of  life., 

God  I    if  it  was  all  of  life  I  couldn't  cut  my  throat 

quick  enough  to  get  away  from  it.  I  want  shotguns  an' 
rifles,  an'  a  horse  between  my  legs.  I  don't  want  to  be 
so  tired  aU  the  time  I  can't  love  my  wife.  Who  wants  to 
be  rich  an'  clear  two  hundred  an'  forty  thousand  on  a 
potato  deal!  Look  at  Rockefeller.  Has  to  live  on  milk. 
I  want  porterhouse  and  a  stomach  that  can  bite  sole- 
leather.  An'  I  want  you,  an'  plenty  of  time  along  with 


426  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

you,  an'  fun  for  both  of  us.  "What's  the  good  of  life  if 
they  ain't  no  fun?" 

"Oh,  Billy!"  Saxon  cried.  "It's  just  what  I've  been 
trying  to  get  straightened  out  in  my  head.  It's  been  wor- 
rying me  for  ever  so  long.  I  was  afraid  there  was  some- 
thing wrong  with  me — that  I  wasn't  made  for  the  country 
after  all.  All  the  time  I  didn't  envy  the  San  Leandro 
Portuguese.  I  didn't  want  to  be  one,  nor  a  Pajaro  Val- 
ley Dalmatian,  nor  even  a  Mrs.  Mortimer.  And  you  didn't 
either.  "What  we  want  is  a  valley  of  the  moon,  with  not  too 
much  work,  and  all  the  fun  we  want.  And  well  just  keep 
on  looking  until  we  find  it.  And  if  we  don't  find  it,  we'll 
go  on  having  the  fun  just  as  we  have  ever  since  we  left 
Oakland.  And,  Billy  .  .  .  we're  never,  never  going 
to  work  our  damned  heads  off,  are  we?" 

"Not  on  your  life,"  Billy  growled  in  fierce  affirmation. 

They  walked  into  Black  Diamond  with  their  packs  on 
their  backs.  It  was  a  scattered  village  of  shabby  little 
cottages,  with  a  main  street  that  was  a  wallow  of  black 
mud  from  the  last  late  spring  rain. .  The  sidewalks  bumped 
up  and  down  in  uneven  steps  and  landings.  Everything 
seemed  un-American.  The  names  on  the  strange  ding}' 
shops  were  unspeakably  foreign.  The  one  dingy  hotel 
was  run  by  a  Greek.  Greeks  were  everywhere — swarthy 
men  in  sea-boots  and  tam-o'-shanters,  hatless  women  in 
bright  colors,  hordes  of  sturdy  children,  and  all  speaking 
in  outlandish  voices,  crying  shrilly  and  vivaciously  witt 
the  volubility  of  the  Mediterranean. 

"Huh!  this  ain't  the  United  States,"  Billy  mut- 
tered. 

Down  on  the  water  front  they  found  a  fish  cannery  and 
an  asparagus  cannery  in  the  height  of  the  busy  season, 
where  they  looked  in  vain  among  the  toilers  for  familiar 
American  faces.  Billy  picked  out  the  bookkeepers  and 
foremen  for  Americans.  All  the  rest  were  Greeks,  Ital- 
ians, and  Chinese. 

At  the  steamboat  wharf,  they  watched  the  bright-painted 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     427 

Greek  boats  arriving,  discharging  their  loads  of  glorious 
salmon,  and  departing.  New  York  Cut-Off,  as  the  slough 
was  called,  curved  to  the  west  and  north  and  flowed  into 
a  vast  body  of  water  which  was  the  united  Sacramento 
and  San  Joaquin  rivers. 

Beyond  the  steamboat  wharf,  the  fishing  wharves  dwuv 
died  to  stages  for  the  drying  of  nets;  and  here,  away 
from  the  noise  and  clatter  of  the  alien  town,  Saxon  and 
Billy  took  off  their  packs  and  rested.  The  tall,  rustling 
tules  grew  out  of  the  deep  water  close  to  the  dilapidated 
boat-landing  where  they  sat.  Opposite  the  town  lay  a 
long  flat  island,  on  which  a  row  of  ragged  poplars  leaned 
against  the  sky. 

"Just  like  in  that  Dutch  windmill  picture  Mark  Hall 
has,"  Saxon  said. 

Billy  pointed  out  the  mouth  of  the  slough  and  across 
the  broad  reach  of  water  to  a  cluster  of  tiny  white  build- 
ings, behind  which,  like  a  glimmering  mirage,  rolled  the 
low  Montezuina  Hills. 

' '  Those  houses  is  Collinsville, ' '  he  informed  her.  ' '  The 
Sacramento  river  comes  in  there,  and  you  go  up  it  to 
Rio  Vista  an'  Isleton,  and  Walnut  Grove,  and  all  those 
places  Mr.  Gunston  was  tellin'  us  about.  It's  all  islands 
and  sloughs,  connectin'  clear  across  an'  back  to  the  San 
Joaquin. ' ' 

"Isn't  the  sun  good,"  Saxon  yawned.  "And  how  quiet 
it  is  here,  so  short  a  distance  away  from  those  strange 

foreigners.  And  to  think!  in  the  cities,  right  now, 

men  are  beating  and  killing  each  other  for  jobs." 

Now  and  again  an  overland  passenger  train  rushed  by 
in  the  distance,  echoing  along  the  background  of  foot- 
hills of  Mt.  Diablo,  which  bulked,  twin-peaked,  green- 
crinkled,  against  the  sky.  Then  the  slumbrous  quiet  would 
fall,  to  be  broken  by  the  far  call  of  a  foreign  tongue  or  by 
a  gasoline  fishing  boat  chugging  in  through  the  mouth 
of  the  slough. 

Not  a  hundred  feet  away,  anchored  close  in  the  tules, 
lay  a  beautiful  white  yacht.  Despite  its  tininess,  it  looked 


428  THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

broad  and  comfortable.  Smoke  was  rising  for'ard  from 
its  stovepipe.  On  its  stern,  in  gold  letters,  they  read 
Roamer.  On  top  of  the  cabin,  basking  in  the  sunshine, 
lay  a  man  and  woman,  the  latter  with  a  pink  scarf  around 
her  head.  The  man  was  reading  aloud  from  a  book,  while 
she  sewed.  Beside  them  sprawled  a  fox  terrier. 

"Gosh!  they  don't  have  to  stick  around  cities  to 

be  happy,"  Billy  commented. 

A  Japanese  came  on  deck  from  the  cabin,  sat  down 
for'ard,  and  began  picking  a  chicken.  The  feathers  float- 
ed away  in  a  long  line  toward  the  mouth  of  the  slough. 

' '  Oh !  Look ! ' '  Saxon  pointed  in  her  excitement.  ' '  He  'a 
fishing!  And  the  line  is  fast  to  his  toe!" 

The  man  had  dropped  the  book  face-downward  on  the 
cabin  and  reached  for  the  line,  while  the  woman  looked  up 
from  her  sewing,  and  the  terrier  began  to  bark.  In  came 
the  line,  hand  under  hand,  and  at  the  end  a  big  catfish. 
When  this  was  removed,  and  the  line  rebaited  and  dropped 
overboard,  the  man  took  a  turn  around  his  toe  and  went 
on  reading. 

A  Japanese  came  down  on  the  landing-stage  beside 
Saxon  and  Billy,  and  hailed  the  yacht.  He  carried  par- 
cels of  meat  and  vegetables ;  one  coat  pocket  bulged  with 
letters,  the  other  with  morning  papers.  In  response  to 
his  hail,  the  Japanese  on  the  yacht  stood  up  with  the  part- 
plucked  chicken.  The  man  said  something  to  him,  put 
aside  the  book,  got  into  the  white  skiff  lying  astern,  and 
rowed  to  the  landing.  As  he  came  alongside  the  stage, 
he  pulled  in  his  oars,  caught  hold,  and  said  good  morning 
genially. 

"Why,  I  know  you,"  Saxon  said  impulsively,  to  Billy's 
amazement.  "You  are.  .  .  ." 

Here  she  broke  off  in  confusion. 

"Go  on,"  the  man  said,  smiling  reassurance. 

"You  are  Jack  Hastings,  I'm  sure  of  it.  I  used  to  see 
your  photograph  in  the  papers  all  the  time  you  were  war 
correspondent  in  the  Japanese-Russian  War.  You've 
written  lots  of  books,  though  I've  never  read  them." 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     429 

"Right  you  are,"  he  ratified.  "And  what's  your 
name?" 

Saxon  introduced  herself  and  Billy,  and,  when  she  noted 
the  writer's  observant  eye  on  their  packs,  she  sketched  the 
pilgrimage  they  were  on.  The  farm  in  the  valley  of  the 
moon  evidently  caught  his  fancy,  and,  though  the  Japanese 
and  his  parcels  were  safely  in  the  skiff,  Hastings  still  lin- 
gered. When  Saxon  spoke  of  Cannel,  he  seemed  to  know 
everybody  in  Hall's  crowd,  and  when  he  heard  they  were 
intending  to  go  to  Rio  Vista,  his  invitation  was  immediate. 

"Why,  we're  going  that  way  ourselves,  inside  an  hour, 
as  soon  as  slack  water  comes,"  he  exclaimed.  "It's  just 
the  thing.  Come  on  on  board.  We'll  be  there  by  four 
this  afternoon  if  there's  any  wind  at  all.  Come  on.  My 
wife's  on  board,  and  Mrs.  Hall  is  one  of  her  best  chums. 
We've  been  away  to  South  America — just  got  back;  or 
you'd  have  seen  us  in  Carmel.  Hal  wrote  to  us  about  the 
pair  of  you." 

It  was  the  second  time  in  her  life  that  Saxon  had  been 
in  a  small  boat,  and  the  Roamer  was  the  first  yacht  she  had 
ever  been  on  board.  The  writer's  wife,  whom  he  called 
Clara,  welcomed  them  heartily,  and  Saxon  lost  no  time 
in  falling  in  love  with  her  and  in  being  fallen  in  love  with 
in  return.  So  strikingly  did  they  resemble  each  other,  that 
Hastings  was  not  many  minutes  in  calling  attention  to 
it.  He  made  them  stand  side  by  side,  studied  their  eyes 
and  mouths  and  ears,  compared  their  hands,  their  hair, 
their  ankles,  and  swore  that  his  fondest  dream  was  shat- 
tered— namely,  that  when  Clara  had  been  made  the  mold 
was  broken. 

On  Clara's  suggestion  that  it  might  have  been  pretty 
much  the  same  mold,  they  compared  histories.  Both  were 
of  the  pioneer  stock.  Clara's  mother,  like  Saxon's,  had 
crossed  the  Plains  with  ox-teams,  and,  like  Saxon's,  had 
wintered  in  Salt  Lake  City — in  fact,  had,  with  her  sisters, 
opened  the  first  Gentile  school  in  that  Mormon  strong- 
hold. And,  if  Saxon's  father  had  helped  raise  the  Bear 
Flag  rebellion  at  Sonoma,  it  was  at  Sonoma  that  Clara's 


430  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

father  had  mustered  in  for  the  War  of  the  Rebellion  and 
ridden  as  far  east  with  his  troop  as  Salt  Lake  City,  of 
which  place  he  had  been  provost  marshal  when  the  Mor- 
mon trouble  flared  up.  To  complete  it  all,  Clara  fetched 
from  the  cabin  an  ukulele  of  koa  wood  that  was  the  twin 
to  Saxon's,  and  together  they  sang  ''Honolulu  Tomboy." 

Hastings  decided  to  eat  dinner — he  called  the  midday 
meal  by  its  old-fashioned  name — before  sailing ;  and  down 
oelow  Saxon  was  surprised  and  delighted  by  the  measure 
of  comfort  in  so  tiny  a  cabin.  There  was  just  room  for 
Billy  to  stand  upright.  A  centerboard-case  divided  the 
room  in  half  longitudinally,  and  to  this  was  attached  the 
hinged  table  from  which  they  ate.  Low  bunks  that  ran 
the  full  cabin  length,  upholstered  in  cheerful  green,  served 
as  seats.  A  curtain,  easily  attached  by  hooks  between  the. 
centerboard-case  and  the  roof,  at  night  screened  Mrs.  Hast- 
ings' sleeping  quarters.  On  the  opposite  side  the  two  Jap- 
anese bunked,  while  for'ard,  under  the  deck,  was  the 
galley.  So  small  was  it  that  there  was  just  room  beside  it 
for  the  cook,  who  was  compelled  by  the  low  deck  to  squat 
on  his  hams.  The  other  Japanese,  who  had  brought  the 
parcels  on  board,  waited  on  the  table. 

"They  are  looking  for  a  ranch  in  the  valley  of  the 
moon,"  Hastings  concluded  his  explanation  of  the  pil- 
grimage to  Clara. 

"Oh!  don't  you  know "  she  cried;  but  was 

silenced  by  her  husband. 

"Hush,"  he  said  peremptorily,  then  turned  to  their 
guests.  "Listen.  There's  something  in  that  valley  of 
the  moon  idea,  but  I  won't  tell  you  what.  It  is  a  secret. 
Now  we've  a  ranch  \n  Sonoma  Valley  about  eight  miles 
from  the  very  town  of  Sonoma  where  you  two  girls'  fathers 
took  up  soldiering;  and  if  you  ever  come  to  our  ranch 
you'll  learn  the  secret.  Oh,  believe  me,  it's  connected  with 
your  valley  of  the  moon.  Isn't  it,  Mate?" 

This  last  was  the  mutual  name  he  and  Clara  had  for 
each  other. 

She  smiled  and  laughed  and  nodded  her  head. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     431 

"You  might  find  our  valley  the  very  one  you  are  look- 
ing for,"  she  said. 

But  Hastings  shook  his  head  at  her  to  cheek  further 
speech.  She  turned  to  the  fox  terrier  and  made  it  speak 
for  a  piece  of  meat. 

"Her  name's  Peggy,"  she  told  Saxon.  "We  had  two 
Irish  terriers  down  in  the  South  Seas,  brother  and  sister, 
but  they  died.  We  called  them  Peggy  and  Possum.  So 
she's  named  after  the  original  Peggy." 

Billy  was  impressed  by  the  ease  with  which  the  Eoamer 
was  operated.  While  they  lingered  at  table,  at  a  word 
from  Hastings  the  two  Japanese  had  gone  on  deck.  Billy 
could  hear  them  throwing  down  the  halyards,  casting  off 
gaskets,  and  heaving  the  anchor  short  on  the  tiny  winch. 
In  several  minutes  one  called  down  that  everything  was 
ready,  and  all  went  on  deck.  Hoisting  mainsail  and  jig- 
ger was  a  matter  of  minutes.  Then  the  cook  and  cabin-boy 
broke  out  anchor,  and,  while  one  hove  it  up,  the  other 
hoisted  the  jib.  Hastings,  at  the  wheel,  trimmed  the  sheet. 
The  Roamer  paid  off,  filled  her  sails,  slightly  heeling,  and 
slid  across  the  smooth  water  and  out  the  mouth  of  New 
York  Slough.  The  Japanese  coiled  the  halyards  and  went 
below  for  their  own  dinner. 

"The  flood  is  just  beginning  to  make,"  said  Hastings, 
pointing  to  a  striped  spar-buoy  that  was  slightly  tipping 
up-stream  on  the  edge  of  the  channel. 

The  tiny  white  houses  of  Collinsville,  which  they  were 
nearing,  disappeared  behind  a  low  island,  though  the  Mon- 
itezuma  Hills,  with  their  long,  low,  restful  lines,  slunv 
"bered  on  the  horizon  apparently  as  far  away  as  ever. 

As  the  Roamer  passed  the  mouth  of  Montezuma  Slough 
and  entered  the  Sacramento,  they  came  upon  Collinsville 
close  at  hand.  Saxon  clapped  her  hands. 

"It's  like  a  lot  of  toy  houses,"  she  said,  "cut  out  of 
cardboard.  And  those  hilly  fields  are  just  painted  up 
behind." 

They  passed  many  arks  and  houseboats  of  fishermen 
moored  among  the  tules,  and  the  women  and  children,  like 


432  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

the  men  in  the  boats,  were  dark-skinned,  black-eyed,  for- 
eign. As  they  proceeded  up  the  river,  they  began  to  en- 
counter dredgers  at  work,  biting  out  mouthfuls  of  the 
sandy  river  bottom  and  heaping  it  on  top  of  the  huge 
levees.  Great  mats  of  willow  brush,  hundreds  of  yards  in 
length,  were  laid  on  top  of  the  river-slope  of  the  levees 
and  held  in  place  by  steel  cables  and  thousands  of  cubes 
of  cement.  The  willows  soon  sprouted,  Hastings  told  them, 
and  by  the  time  the  mats  were  rotted  away  the  sand  was 
held  in  place  by  the  roots  of  the  trees. 

''It  must,  cost  like  Sam  Hill,"  Billy  observed. 

"But  the  land  is  worth  it,"  Hastings  explained  "This 
island  land  is  the  most  productive  in  the  world.  This 
section  of  California  is  like  Holland.  You  wouldn't  think 
it,  but  this  water  we're  sailing  on  is  higher  than  the  sur- 
face of  the  islands.  They're  like  leaky  boats — calking, 
patching,  pumping,  night  and  day  and  all  the  time.  But 
it  pays.  It  pays." 

Except  for  the  dredgers,  the  fresh-piled  .sand,  the  dense 
willow  thickets,  and  always  Mt.  Diablo  to  the  south,  noth- 
ing was  to  be  seen.  Occasionally  a  river  steamboat  passed, 
and  blue  herons  flew  into  the  trees. 

"It  must  be  very  lonely,"  Saxon  remarked. 

Hastings  laughed  and  told  her  she  would  change  her 
mind  later.  Much  he  related  to  them  of  the  river  lands, 
and  after  a  while  he  got  on  the  subject  of  tenant  farm- 
ing. Saxon  had  started  him  by  speaking  of  the  land- 
hungry  Anglo-Saxons. 

"Land-hogs,"  he  snapped.  "That's  our  record  in  this 
country.  As  one  old  Reuben  told  a  professor  of  an  agri- 
cultural experiment  station:  'They  ain't  no  sense  in  try- 
in'  to  teach  me  farmin'.  I  know  all  about  it.  Ain't  I 
worked  out  three  farms?'  It  was  his  kind  that  destroyed 
New  England.  Back  there  great  sections  are  relapsing  to 
wilderness.  In  one  state,  at  least,  the  deer  have  increased 
until  they  are  a  nuisance.  There  are  abandoned  farms  by 
the  tens  of  thousands.  I've  gone  over  the  lists  of  them — 
farms  in  New  York,  New  Jersey,  Massachusetts,  Connect!- 


THE  VALLEY  OP  THE  MOON     433 

cut.  Offered  for  sale  on  easy  payment.  The  prices  asked 
wouldn't  pay  for  the  improvements,  while  the  land,  of 
course,  is  thrown  in  for  nothing. 

"And  the  same  thing  is  going  on,  in  one  way  or  an- 
other, the  same  land-robbing  and  hogging,  over  the  rest  of 
the  country — down  in  Texas,  in  Missouri,  and  Kansas,  out 
here  in  California.  Take  tenant  farming.  I  know  a  ranch 
in  my  county  where  the  land  was  worth  a  hundred  and 
twenty-five  an  acre.  And  it  gave  its  return  at  that  valua- 
tion. When  the  old  man  died,  the  son  leased  it  to  a  Portu- 
guese and  went  to  live  in  the  city.  In  five  years  the  Portu- 
guese skimmed  the  cream  and  dried  up  the  udder.  The 
second  lease;  with  another  Portuguese  for  three  years, 
gave  one-quarter  the  former  return.  No  third  Portuguese 
appeared  to  offer  to  lease  it.  There  wasn't  anything  left. 
That  ranch  was  worth  fifty  thousand  when  the  old  man 
died.  In  the  end  the  son  got  eleven  thousand  for  it. 
Why,  I  Ve  seen  land  that  paid  twelve  per  cent.,  that,  after 
the  skimming  of  a  five-years'  lease,  paid  only  one  and  a 
quarter  per  cent." 

"It's  the  same  in  our  valley,"  Mrs.  Hastings  supple- 
mented. ' '  All  the  old  farms  are  dropping  into  ruin.  Take 
the  Ebell  Place,  Mate."  Her  husband  nodded  emphatic 
indorsement.  "When  we  used  to  know  it,  it  was  a  per- 
fect paradise  of  a  farm.  There  were  dams  and  lakes, 
beautiful  meadows,  lush  hayfields,  red  hills  of  grape-lands, 
hundreds  of  acres  of  good  pasture,  heavenly  groves  of 
pines  and  oaks,  a  stone  winery,  stone  barns,  grounds — gh, 
I  couldn't  describe  it  in  hours.  When  Mrs.  Bell  died,  the 
family  scattered,  and  the  leasing  began.  It's  a  ruin  to-day. 
The  trees  have  been  cut  and  sold  for  firewood.  There's 
only  a  little  bit  of  the  vineyard  that  isn't  abandoned — 
j-ust  enough  to  make  wine  for  the  present  Italian  lessees, 
who  are  running  a  poverty-stricken  milk  ranch  on  the 
leavings  of  the  soil.  I  rode  over  it  last  year,  and  cried. 
The  beautiful  orchard  is  a  horror.  The  grounds  have  gone 
back  to  the  wild.  Just  because  they  didn't  keep  the  gut- 
ters cleaned  out,  the  rain  trickled  down  and  dry-rotteo* 


434  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

the  timbers,  and  the  big  stone  barn  is  caved  in.  The  same 
with  part  of  the  winery — the  other  part  is  used  for  stabling 
the  cows.  And  the  house! — words  can't  describe!" 

"It's  become  a  profession,"  Hastings  went  on.  "The 
'movers.'  They  lease,  clean  out  and  gut  a  place  in  sev- 
eral years,  and  then  move  on.  They're  not  like  the  for- 
eigners, the  Chinese,  and  Japanese,  and  the  rest.  In  the 
main  they're  a  lazy,  vagabond,  poor- white  sort,  who  do 
nothing  else  but  skin  the  soil  and  move,  skin  the  soil  and 
move.  Now  take  the  Portuguese  and  Italians  in  our  coun- 
try. They  are  different.  They  arrive  in  the  country  with- 
out a  penny  and  work  for  others  of  their  countrymen  until 
they've  learned  the  language  and  their  way  about.  Now 
they're  not  movers.  What  they  are  after  is  land  of  their 
own,  which  they  will  love  and  care  for  and  conserve.  But, 
in  the  meantime,  how  to  get  it?  Saving  wages  is  slow. 
There  is  a  quicker  way.  They  lease.  In  three  years  they 
can  gut  enough  out  of  somebody  else's  land  to  set  them- 
selves up  for  life.  It  is  sacrilege,  a  veritable  rape  of  the 
land;  but  what  of  it?  It's  the  way  of  the  United  States." 

He  turned  suddenly  on  Billy. 

"Look  here,  Roberts.  You  and  your  wife  are  looking 
for  your  bit  of  land.  You  want  it  bad.  Now  take  my 
advice.  It's  cold,  hard  advice.  Become  a  tenant  farmer. 
Lease  some  place,  where  the  old  folks  have  died  and  the 
country  isn't  good  enough  for  the  sons  and  daughters. 
Then  gut  it.  Wring  the  last  dollar  out  of  the  soil,  repair 
nothing,  and  in  three  years  you'll  have  your  own  place 
paid  for.  Then  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  and  love  your 
soil.  Nourish  it.  Every  dollar  you  feed  it  will  return  you 
two.  And  have  nothing  scrub  about  the  place.  If  it's  a 
hoi-se,  a  cow,  a  pig,  a  chicken,  or  a  blackberry  vine,  see 
that  it's  thoroughbred." 

"But  it's  wicked!"  Saxon  wrung  out.  "It's  wicked 
advice." 

"We  live  in  a  wicked  age,"  Hastings  countered,  smiling 
grimly.  "This  wholesale  land-skinning  is  the  national 
crime  of  the  United  States  to-day.  Nor  would  I  give  your 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     435 

husband  such  advice  if  I  weren't  absolutely  certain  that 
the  land  he  skins  would  be  skinned  by  some  Portuguese  or 
Italian  if  he  refused.  As  fast  as  they  arrive  and  settle 
down,  they  send  for  their  sisters  and  their  cousins  and 
their  aunts.  If  you  were  thirsty,  if  a  warehouse  were 
burning  and  beautiful  Rhine  wine  were  running  to  waste, 
) would  you  stay  your  hand  from  scooping  a  drink?  Well, 
the  national  warehouse  is  afire  in  many  places,  and  no  end 
of  the  good  things  are  running  to  waste.  Help  yourself, 
If  you  don't,  the  immigrants  will." 

"Oh,  you  don't  know  him,"  Mrs.  Hastings  hurried  to 
explain.  "He  spends  all  his  time  on  the  ranch  in  con- 
serving the  soil.  There  are  over  a  thousand  acres  of 
woods  alone,  and,  though  he  thins  and  forests  like  a  sur- 
geon, he  won't  let  a  tree  be  chopped  without  his  permission. 
He's  even  planted  a  hundred  thousand  trees.  He's  always 
draining  and  ditching  to  stop  erosion,  and  experiment- 
ing with  pasture  grasses.  And  every  little  while  he  buys 
some  exhausted  adjoining  ranch  and  starts  building  up 
the  soil." 

"Wherefore  I  know  what  I'm  talking  about,"  Hastings 
broke  in.  "And  my  advice  holds.  I  love  the  soil,  yet  to- 
morrow, things  being  as  they  are  and  if  I  were  poor,  I'd 
gut  five  hundred  acres  in  order  to  buy  twenty-five  for 
myself.  When  you  get  into  Sonoma  Valley,  look  me  up, 
and  111  put  you  onto  the  whole  game,  and  both  ends  of 
it.  I'll  show  you  construction  as  well  as  destruction. 
When  you  find  a  farm  doomed  to  be  gutted  anyway,  why 
jump  in  and  do  it  yourself." 

"Yes,  and  he  mortgaged  himself  to  the  eyes,"  laughed 
Mrs.  Hastings,  "to  keep  five  hundred  acres  of  woods  out 
of  the  hands  of  the  charcoal  burners. ' ' 

Ahead,  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Sacramento,  just  at  the 
fading  end  of  the  Montezuma  Hills,  Rio  Vista  appeared. 
The  Roamer  slipped  through  the  smooth  water,  past  steam^ 
boat  wharves,  landing  stages,  and  warehouses.  The  two 
Japanese  went  for'ard  on  deck.  At  command  of  Hast- 
ings, the  jib  ran  down,  and  he  shot  the  Roamer  into  the 


436  THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

wind,  losing  way,  until  he  called,  "Let  go  the  hook!"  The 
anchor  went  down,  and  the  yacht  swung  to  it,  so  close  to 
•hore  that  the  skiff  lay  under  overhanging  willows. 

"Farther  up  the  river  we  tie  to  the  hank,"  Mrs.  Hast- 
ings said,  ' '  so  that  when  you  wake  in  the  morning  you  find 
the  branches  of  trees  sticking  down  into  the  cabin." 

"Ooh!"  Saxon  murmured,  pointing  to  a  lump  on  hei- 
wrist.  "Look  at  that.  A  mosquito." 

"Pretty  early  for  them,"  Hastings  said.  "But  later 
on  they're  terrible.  I've  seen  them  so  thick  I  couldn't  back 
the  jib  against  them." 

Saxon  was  not  nautical  enough  to  appreciate  his  hyper- 
bole, though  Billy  grinned. 

"There  are  no  mosquitoes  in  the  valley  of  the  moon," 
she  said. 

"No,  never,"  said  Mrs.  Hastings,  whose  husband  began 
immediately  to  regret  the  smallness  of  the  cabin  which 
prevented  him  from  offering  sleeping  accommodations. 

An  automobile  bumped  along  on  top  of  the  levee,  and 
the  young  boys  and  girls  in  it  cried,  "Oh,  you  kid!"  to 
Saxon  and  Billy,  and  Hastings,  who  was  rowing  them 
ashore  in  the  skiff.  Hastings  called,  "Oh,  you  kid!"  back 
to  them;  and  Saxon,  pleasuring  in  the  boyishness  of  his 
sunburned  face,  was  reminded  of  the  boyishness  of  Mark 
Hall  and  his  Carmel  crowd. 


CHAPTER  XII 


the  Sacramento  on  an  old-fashioned  ferry  4 
short  distance  above  Rio  Vista,  Saxon  and  Billy  entered 
the  river  country.  From  the  top  of  the  levee  she  got  her 
revelation.  Beneath,  lower  than  the  river,  stretched  broad, 
flat  land,  far  as  the  eye  could  see.  Koads  ran  in  every 
direction,  and  she  saw  countless  farmhouses  of  which  she 
had  never  dreamed  when  sailing  on  the  lonely  river  a  few 
feet  the  other  side  of  the  willow  fringe. 

Three  weeks  they  spent  among  the  rich  farm  islands, 
which  heaped  up  levees  and  pumped  day  and  night  to 
keep  afloat.  It  was  a  monotonous  land,  with  an  unvarying 
richness  of  soil  and  with  only  one  landmark  —  Mt.  Diablo, 
ever  to  be  seen,  sleeping  in  the  midday  azure,  limning  its 
crinkled  mass  against  the  sunset  sky,  or  forming  like  a 
dream  out  of  the  silver  dawn.  Sometimes  on  foot,  often 
by  launch,  they  criss-crossed  and  threaded  the  river  region 
as  far  as  the  peat  lands  of  the  Middle  River,  down  the 
San  Joaquin  to  Antioch,  and  up  Georgiana  Slough  to  "Wal- 
nut Grove  on  the  Sacramento.  And  it  proved  a  foreign 
land.  The  workers  of  the  soil  teemed  by  thousands,  yet 
Saxon  and  Billy  knew  what  it  was  to  go  a  whole  day  with- 
out finding  any  one  who  spoke  English.  They  encountered 
—  sometimes  in  whole  villages  —  Chinese,  Japanese,  Italians, 
'Portuguese,  Swiss,  Hindus,  Koreans,  Norwegians,  Danes, 
French,  Armenians,  Slavs,  almost  every  nationality  sava 
American.  One  American  they  found  on  the  lower  reaches 
of  Georgiana  who  eked  an  illicit  existence  by  fishing  with 
traps.  Another  American,  who  spouted  blood  and  destruc- 
tion on  all  political  subjects,  was  an  itinerant  bee-farmer. 
At  Walnut  Grove,  bustling  with  life,  the  few  Americans 
consisted  of  the  storekeeper,  the  saloonkeeper,  the  butcher, 
,437^ 


438  THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

the  keeper  of  the  drawbridge,  and  the  ferryman.  Yet  two 
thriving  towns  were  in  "Walnut  Grove,  one  Chinese,  one 
Japanese.  Most  of  the  land  was  owned  by  Americans,  who 
lived  away  from  it  and  were  continually  selling  it  to  the 
foreigners. 

A  riot,  or  a  merry-making — they  could  not  tell  which 
^-was  taking  place  in  the  Japanese  town,  as  Saxon  and 
Billy  steamed  out  on  the  Apache,  bound  for  Sacra- 
mento. 

"We're  settin'  on  the  stoop,"  Billy  railed.  "Pretty 
soon  they'll  crowd  us  off  of  that." 

"There  won't  be  any  stoop  in  the  valley  of  the  moon,'* 
Saxon  cheered  him. 

But  he  was  inconsolable,  remarking  bitterly: 

"An'  they  ain't  one  of  them  damn  foreigners  that  can 
handle  four  horses  like  me. 

"But  they  can  everlastingly  farm,"  he  added. 

And  Saxon,  looking  at  his  moody  face,  was  suddenly 
reminded  of  a  lithograph  she  had  seen  in  her  childhood. 
It  was  of  a  Plains  Indian,  in  paint  and  feathers,  astride 
his  horse  and  gazing  with  wondering  eye  at  a  railroad 
train  rushing  along  a  fresh-made  track.  The  Indian  had 
passed,  she  remembered,  before  the  tide  of  new  life  that 
brought  the  railroad.  And  were  Billy  and  his  kind  doomed 
to  pass,  she  pondered,  before  this  new  tide  of  life,  amaz- 
ingly industrious,  that  was  flooding  in  from  Asia  and 
Europe? 

At  Sacramento  they  stopped  two  weeks,  where  Billy 
drove  team  and  earned  the  money  to  put  them  along  on 
their  travels.  Also,  life  in  Oakland  and  Carmel,  close 
to  the  salt  edge  of  the  coast,  had  spoiled  them  for  the 
interior.  Too  warm,  was  their  verdict  of  Sacramento, 
and  they  followed  the  railroad  west,  through  a  region  of 
swamp-land,  to  Davisville.  Here  they  were  lured  aside 
and  to  the  north  to  pretty  "Woodland,  where  Billy  drove 
team  for  a  fruit  farm,  and  where  Saxon  wrung  from 
him  a  reluctant  consent  for  her  to  work  a  few  days  in 
the  fruit  harvest.  She  made  an  important  and  mystify- 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     439 

ing  secret  of  what  she  intended  doing  with  her  earnings, 
and  Billy  teased  her  about  it  until  the  matter  passed  from 
his  mind.  Nor  did  she  tell  him  of  a  money  order  inclosed 
with  a  certain  blue  slip  of  paper  in  a  letter  to  Bud  Stroth- 
ers. 

They  began  to  suffer  from  the  heat.  Billy  declared  they 
had  strayed  out  of  the  blanket  climate. 

''There  are  no  redwoods  here,"  Saxon  said.  "We  must 
go  west  toward  the  coast.  It  is  there  we'll  find  the  valley 
of  the  moon." 

From  Woodland  they  swung  west  and  south  along  the 
county  roads  to  the  fruit  paradise  of  Vacaville.  Here  Billy 
picked  fruit,  then  drove  team;  and  here  Saxon  received 
a  letter  and  a  tiny  express  package  from  Bud  Strothers. 
When  Billy  came  into  camp  from  the  day's  work,  she  bade 
him  stand  still  and  shut  his  eyes.  For  a  few  seconds  she 
fumbled  and  did  something  to  the  breast  of  his  cotton 
work-shirt.  Once,  he  felt  a  slight  prick,  as  of  a  pin  point, 
and  grunted,  while  she  laughed  and  bullied  him  to  con- 
tinue keeping  his  eyes  shut. 

"Close  your  eyes  and  give  me  a  kiss,"  she  sang,  "and 
then  I'll  show  you  what  iss." 

She  kissed  him  and  when  he  looked  down  he  saw,  pinned 
to  his  shirt,  the  gold  medals  he  had  pawned  the  day  they 
had  gone  to  the  moving  picture  show  and  received  their 
inspiration  to  return  to  the  land. 

"You  darned  kid!"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  caught  her  to 
him.  "So  that's  what  you  blew  your  fruit  money  in  on? 
An '  I  never  guessed !  Come  here  to  you. ' ' 

And  thereupon  she  suffered  the  pleasant  mastery  of  his 
brawn,  and  was  hugged  and  wrestled  with  until  the  cof- 
fee pot  boiled  over  and  she  darted  from  him  to  the 
rescue. 

"I  kinda  always 've  ben  a  mite  proud  of  'em,"  he  con- 
fessed, as  he  rolled  his  after-supper  cigarette.  ' '  They  take 
me  back  to  my  kid  days  when  I  amateured  it  to  beat  the 
band.  I  was  some  kid  in  them  days,  believe  nnia  -  -But 
say,  d  'ye  know,  they  'd  clean  slipped  my  recollection.  Oak- 


440  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

land's  a  thousan'  years  away  from  you  an'  me,  an*  ten 
thousan'  miles." 

"Then  this  will  bring  you  back  to  it,"  Saxon  said, 
opening  Bud's  letter  and  reading  it  aloud. 

Bud  had  taken  it  for  granted  that  Billy  knew  the  wind- 
up  of  the  strike;  so  he  devoted  himself  to  the  details  as 
to  which  men  had  got  back  their  jobs,  and  which  had  been 
blacklisted.  To  his  own  amazement  he  had  been  taken 
back,  and  was  now  driving  Billy 's  horses.  Still  more  amaz- 
ing was  the  further  information  he  had  to  impart.  The 
old  foreman  of  the  "West  Oakland  stables  had  died,  and 
since  then  two  other  foremen  had  done  nothing  but  make 
messes  of  everything.  The  point  of  all  which  was  that 
the  Boss  had  spoken  that  day  to  Bud,  regretting  the  dis- 
appearance of  Billy. 

"Don't  make  no  mistake,"  Bud  wrote.  "The  Boss  is 
onto  all  your  curves.  I  bet  he  knows  every  scab  you 
slugged.  Just  the  same  he  says  to  me — Strothers,  if  you 
ain't  at  liberty  to  give  me  his  address,  just  write  yourself 
and  tell  him  for  me  to  come  a  running.  I'll  give  him  a 
hundred  and  twenty-five  a  month  to  take  hold  the  stables. ' ' 

Saxon  waited  with  well-concealed  anxiety  when  the  let- 
ter was  finished.  Billy,  stretched  out,  leaning  on  one  el- 
bow, blew  a  meditative  ring  of  smoke.  His  cheap  work- 
shirt,  incongruously  brilliant  with  the  gold  of  the  medals 
that  flashed  in  the  firelight,  was  open  in  front,  showing  the 
smooth  skin  and  splendid  swell  of  chest.  He  glanced 
around — at  the  blankets  bowered  in  a  green  screen  and 
waiting,  at  the  campfire  and  the  blackened,  battered  cof- 
fee pot,  at  the  well-worn  hatchet,  half  buried  in  a  tree 
trunk,  and  lastly  at  Saxon.  His  eyes  embraced  her;  then 
Into  them  came  a  slow  expression  of  inquiry.  But  she 
offered  no  help. 

"Well,"  he  uttered  finally,  "all  you  .gotta 'do  is  write 
Bud  Strothers,  an'  tell  'm  not  on  the  Boss's  ugly  tintype. 

An'  while  you're  about  it,  I'll  send  'm  the  money  to 

get  my  watch  out.  You  work  out  the  interest.  The  over- 
coat can  stay  there  an'  rot." 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     441 

But  they  did  not  prosper  in  the  interior  heat.  They  lost 
weight.  The  resilience  went  out  of  their  minds  and  bodies. 
As  Billy  expressed  it,  their  silk  was  frazzled.  So  they 
shouldered  their  packs  and  headed  west  across  the  wild 
mountains.  In  the  Berryessa  Valley,  the  shimmering  heat 
waves  made  their  eyes  ache,  and  their  heads ;  so  that  they 
traveled  on  in  the  early  morning  and  late  afternoon.  Still 
west  they  headed,  over  more  mountains,  to  beautiful  Napa 
Valley.  The  next  valley  beyond  was  Sonoma,  where  Hast- 
ings had  invited  them  to  his  ranch.  And  here  they  would 
have  gone,  had  not  Billy  chanced  upon  a  newspaper  item 
which  told  of  the  writer's  departure  to  cover  some  revolu- 
tion that  was  breaking  out  somewhere  in  Mexico. 

"We'll  see  'm  later  on,"  Billy  said,  as  they  turned 
northwest,  through  the  vineyards  and  orchards  of  Napa 
Valley.  "We're  like  that  millionaire  Bert  used  to  sing 
about,  except  it 's  time  that  we  've  got  to  burn.  Any  direc- 
tion is  as  good  as  any  other,  only  west  is  best." 

Three  times  in  the  Napa  Valley  Billy  refused  work. 
Past  St.  Helena,  Saxon  hailed  with  joy  the  unmistakable 
redwoods  they  could  see  growing  up  the  small  canyons  that 
penetrated  the  western  wall  of  the  valley.  At  Calistoga, 
at  the  end  of  the  railroad,  they  saw  the  six-horse  stage? 
leaving  for  Middletown  and  Lower  Lake.  They  debated 
their  route.  That  way  led  to  Lake  County  and  not  toward 
the  coast,  so  Saxon  and  Billy  swung  west  through  the 
mountains  to  the  valley  of  the  Russian  River,  coming  out 
at  Healdsburg.  They  lingered  in  the  hop-fields  on  the 
rich  bottoms,  where  Billy  scorned  to  pick  hops  alongside 
of  Indians,  Japanese,  and  Chinese. 

"I  couldn't  work  alongside  of  'em  an  hour  before  I'd 
be  knockin'  their  blocks  off,"  he  explained.  "Besides,  this 
Russian  River's  some  nifty.  Let's  pitch  camp  and  go 
swimmin'." 

So  they  idled  their  way  north  up  the  broad,  fertile  valley, 
so  happy  that  they  forgot  that  work  was  ever  necessary, 
while  the  valley  of  the  moon  was  a  golden  dream,  remote, 
but  wre,  some  day  of  realization.  At  Cloverdale,  Billy 


442  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

fell  into  luck.  A  combination  of  sickness  and  misehanoe 
found  the  stage  stables  short  a  driver.  Each  day  the 
train  disgorged  passengers  for  the  Geysers,  and  Billy,  as  if 
accustomed  to  it  all  his  life,  took  the  reins  of  six  horses 
and  drove  a  full  load  over  the  mountains  in  stage  time. 
The  second  trip  he  had  Saxon  beside  him  on  the  high  box- 
seat.  By  the  end  of  two  weeks  the  regular  driver  was 
back.  Billy  declined  a  stable-job,  took  his  wages,  and  con- 
tinued north. 

Saxon  had  adopted  a  fox  terrier  puppy  and  named  him 
Possum,  after  the  dog  Mrs.  Hastings  had  told  them  about. 
So  young  was  he  that  he  quickly  became  footsore,  and  she 
carried  him  until  Billy  perched  him  on  top  of  his  pack  and 
grumbled  that  Possum  was  chewing  his  back  hair  to  a 
frazzle. 

They  passed  through  the  painted  vineyards  of  Asti  at 
the  end  of  the  grape-picking,  and  entered  Ukiah  drenched 
to  the  skin  by  the  first  winter  rain. 

"Say,"  Billy  said,  "you  remember  the  way  the  Roamer 
just  skated  along.  "Well,  this  summer's  done  the  same 
thing — gone  by  on  wheels.  An'  now  it's  up  to  us  to  find 
some  place  to  winter.  This  Ukiah  looks  like  a  pretty  good 
burg.  "Well  get  a  room  to-night  an' dry  out.  An' to-mor- 
row I'll  hustle  around  to  the  stables,  an'  if  I  locate  any- 
thing we  can  rent  a  shack  an'  have  all  winter  to  think 
about  where  well  go  next  year." 


CHAPTER  Xlli 

I'HE  winter  proved  much  less  exciting  than  the  one  spent 
in  Carmel,  and  keenly  as  Saxon  had  appreciated  the  Car- 
mel  folk,  she  now  appreciated  them  more  keenly  than 
ever.  In  Ukiah  she  formed  nothing  more  than  superficial 
acquaintances.  Here  people  were  more  like  those  of  the 
working  class  she  had  known  in  Oakland,  or  else  they  were 
merely  wealthy  and  herded  together  in  automobiles.  There 
was  no  democratic  artist-colony  that  pursued  fellowship 
disregardful  of  the  caste  of  wealth. 

Yet  it  was  a  more  enjoyable  winter  than  any  she  had 
spent  in  Oakland.  Billy  had  failed  to  get  regular  em- 
ployment; so  she  saw  much  of  him,  and  they  lived  a 
prosperous  and  happy  hand-to-mouth  existence  in  the 
tiny  cottage  they  rented.  As  extra  man  at  the  biggest 
livery  stable,  Billy's  spare  time  was  so  great  that  he 
drifted  into  horse-trading.  It  was  hazardous,  and  more 
than  once  he  was  broke,  but  the  table  never  wanted  for 
the  best  of  steak  and  coffee,  nor  did  they  stint  themselves 
for  clothes. 

''Them  blamed  farmers — I  gotta  pass  it  to  'em,"  Billy 
grinned  one  day,  when  he  had  been  particularly  bested  in 
a  horse  deal.  "They  won't  tear  under  the  wings,  the  sons 
of  guns.  In  the  summer  they  take  in  boarders,  an'  in  the 
winter  they  make  a  good  livin'  doin'  each  other  up  at 
tradin '  horses.  An '  I  just  want  to  tell  you,  Saxon,  they  've 
sure  shown  me  a  few.  An'  I'm  gettin'  tough  under  the 
wings  myself.  I'll  never  tear  again  so  as  you  can  notice 
it.  Which  means  one  more  trade  learned  for  yours  truly. 
I  can  make  a  livin'  anywhere  now  tradin'  horses." 

Often  Billy  had  Saxon  out  on  spare  saddle  horses  from 
the  stable,  and  his  horse  deals  took  them  on  many  trips 


444  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

into  the  surrounding  country.  Likewise  she  was  with  him 
when  he  was  driving  horses  to  sell  on  commission;  and 
in  both  their  minds,  independently,  arose  a  new  idea  con- 
cerning their  pilgrimage.  Billy  was  the  first  to  broach  it. 

"I  run  into  an  outfit  the  other  day,  that's  stored  in 
town,"  he  said,  "an*  it's  kept  me  thinkin'  ever  since. 
Ain't  no  use  tryin'  to  get  you  to  guess  it,  because  you 
can't.  I'll  tell  you — the  sweilest  wagon-campin '  outfit 
anybody  ever  heard  of.  First  of  all,  the  wagon's  a  peach- 
erino.  Strong  as  they  make  'em.  It  was  made  to  order, 
upon  Puget  Sound,  an'  it  was  tested  out  all  the  way  down 
here.  No  load  an'  no  road  can  strain  it.  The  guy  had 
consumption  that  had  it  built.  A  doctor  an  ••  "ook  trav- 
eled with  'm  till  ne  passed  in  hi<  checks  here  in  Ukiah 
two  years  ago.  But  say— if  yoi  c~uld  see  it.  Every  kind 
of  a  contrivance — a  place  for  everything — a  regular  home 
on  wheels.  Now,  if  we  could  get  that,  aa '  a  couple  of 
plugs,  we  could  travel  like  kings  an'  laugh  at  the  weather." 

"Oh!  Billy!  it's  just  what  I've  been  dreamin'  all 

winter.  It  would  be  ideal.  And  .  .  .  well,  sometimes 
on  the  road  I  'm  sure  you  can 't  help  forgetting  what  a  nice 
little  wife  you've  got  .  .  .  and  with  a  wagon  I  could 
have  all  kinds  of  pretty  clothes  along." 

Billy's  blue  eyes  glowed  a  caress,  cloudy  and  warm, 
as  he  said  quietly: 

"I've  ben  thinkin'  about  that." 

"And  you  can  carry  a  rifle  and  shotgun  and  fishing 
poles  and  everything,"  she  rushed  along.  "And  a  good 
big  axe,  man-size,  instead  of  that  hatchet  you're  always 
complaining  about.  And  Possum  can  lift  up  his  legs  and 
rest.  And — but  suppose  you  can't  buy  it?  How  much 
do  they  want?" 

"One  hundred  an'  fifty  big  bucks,"  he  answered.  "But 
dirt  cheap  at  that.  It's  givin'  it  away.  I  tell  you  that  rig 
wasn't  built  for  a  cent  less  than  four  hundred,  an'  I  know 
wagon-work  in  the  dark.  Now,  if  I  can  put  through  that 
dicker  with  Caswell's  six  horses — say,  I  just  got  onto  that 
horse-buyer  to-day.  If  he  buys  'em,  who  d'ye  think  he'll 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     445 

ship  'em  to?  To  the  Boss,  right  to  the  West  Oakland 
stables.  I'm  goin'  to  get  you  to  write  to  him.  Traveling 
as  we're  goin'  to,  I  can  pick  up  bargains.  An'  if  the 
Boss '11  talk,  I  can  make  the  regular  horse-buyer's  commis- 
sions. He'll  have  to  trust  me  with  a  lot  of  money,  though, 
which  most  likely  he  won't,  knowin'  all  his  scabs  I  beat 
up." 

"If  he  could  trust  you  to  run  his  stable,  I  guess  he  isn't 
afraid  to  let  you  handle  his  money,"  Saxon  said. 

Billy  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  modest  dubiousness. 

""Well,  anyway,  as  I  was  sayin'  if  I  can  sell  Caswell's 
six  horses,  why,  we  can  stand  off  this  month's  bills  an' 
buy  the  wagon." 

"But  horses?"  Saxon  queried  anxiously. 

"They'll  come  later — if  I  have  to  take  a  regular  job 
for  two  or  three  months.  The  only  trouble  with  that  'd  be 
that  it'd  run  us  pretty  well  along  into  summer  before  we 
could  pull  out.  But  come  on  down  town  an'  I'll  show 
you  the  outfit  right  now." 

Saxon  saw  the  wagon  and  was  so  infatuated  with  it  that 
she  lost  a  night's  sleep  from  sheer  insomnia  of  anticipa- 
tion. Then  Caswell's  six  horses  were  sold,  the  month's 
bills  held  over,  and  the  wagon  became  theirs.  One  rainy 
morning,  two  weeks  later,  Billy  had  scarcely  left  the  house, 
to  be  gone  on  an  all-day  trip  into  the  country  after  horses, 
when  he  was  back  again. 

"Come  on!"  he  called  to  Saxon  from  the  street.  "Get 
your  things  on  an'  come  along.  I  want  to  show  you  some- 
thing. ' ' 

He  drove  down  town  to  a  board  stable,  and  took  hei 
through  to  a  large,  roofed  inclosure  in  the  rear.  There  he 
led  to  her  a  span  of  sturdy  dappled  chestnuts,  with  cream- 
colored  manes  and  tails. 

"Oh,  the  beauties!  the  beauties!"  Saxon  cried,  resting 
her  cheek  against  the  velvet  muzzle  of  one,  while  the  other 
roguishly  nozzled  for  a  share. 

"Ain't  they,  though?"  Billy  reveled,  leading  them  up 
and  down  before  her  admiring  gaze.  "Thirteen  hundred 


446  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON  * 

an'  fifty  each,  an'  they  don't  look  the  weight,  they're  that 
slick  put  together.  I  couldn't  believe  it  myself,  till  I  put 
'em  on  the  scales.  Twenty-seven  hundred  an'  seven 
pounds,  the  two  of  'em.  An'  I  tried  'em  out — that  was 
two  days  ago.  Good  dispositions,  no  faults,  an'  true-pul- 
lers, automobile  broke  an'  all  the  rest.  I'd  back  'em  to 

out-pull  any  team  of  their  weight  I  ever  seen.  Say, 

how'd  they  look  hooked  up  to  that  wagon  of  ourn?" 

Saxon  visioned  the  picture,  and  shook  her  head  slowly 
in  a  reaction  of  regret. 

"Three  hundred  spot  cash  buys  'em,"  Billy  went  on. 
"An'  that's  bed-rock.  The  owner  wants  the  money  so  bad 
he's  droolin'  for  it.  Just  gotta  sell,  an'  sell  quick.  An' 
Saxon,  honest  to  God,  that  pair'd  fetch  five  hundred  at 
suction  down  in  the  city.  Both  mares,  full  sisters,  five 
an'  six  years  old,  registered  Belgian  sire,  out  of  a  heavy 
standard-bred  mare  that  I  know.  Three  hundred  takes 
'em,  an'  I  got  the  refusal  for  three  days." 

Saxon 's  regret  changed  to  indignation. 

"Oh,  why  did  you  show  them  to  me?  We  haven't  any 
three  hundred,  and  you  know  it.  All  I  've  got  in  the  house 
is  six  dollars,  and  you  haven't  that  much." 

"Maybe  you  think  that's  all  I  brought  you  down  town 
for,"  he  replied  enigmatically.  "Well,  it  ain't." 

He  paused,  licked  his  lips,  and  shifted  his  weight  un- 
easily from  one  leg  to  the  other. 

"Now  you  listen  till  I  get  all  done  before  you  say  any- 
ithing.  Ready?" 

She  nodded. 

"Won't  open  your  mouth?" 

This  time  she  obediently  shook  her  head. 

"Well,  it's  this  way,"  he  began  haltingly.  "They's  a 
youngster  come  up  from  Frisco,  Young  Sandow  they  call 
'm,  an'  the  Pride  of  Telegraph  Hill.  He's  the  real  goods 
of  a  heavyweight,  an'  he  was  to  fight  Montana  Red  Sat- 
urday night,  only  Montana  Red,  just  in  a  little  trainin' 
bout,  snapped  his  forearm  yesterday.  The  managers  has 
kept  it  quiet.  Now  here's  the  proposition.  Lots  of  tickets 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     447 

sold,  an'  they'll  be  a  big  crowd  Saturday  night.  At  the 
last  moment,  so  as  not  to  disappoint  'em,  they'll  spring  me 
to  take  Montana's  place.  I'm  the  dark  horse.  Nobody 
knows  me — not  even  Young  Sandow.  He's  come  up  since 
my  time.  I'll  be  a  rube  fighter.  I  can  fight  as  Horse 
Koberts. 

' '  Now,  wait  a  minute.  The  winner  '11  pull  down  three 

hundred  big  round  iron  dollars.  Wait,  I'm  tellin' 

you!  It's  a  lead-pipe  cinch.  It's  like  robbin'  a  corpse. 
Sandow 's  got  all  the  heart  in  the  world — regular  knoek- 
down-an '-drag-out-an '-hang-on  fighter.  I've  followed  'm 
in  the  papers.  But  he  ain't  clever.  I'm  slow,  all  right, 
all  right,  but  I'm  clever,  an'  I  got  a  hay-maker  in  each 
arm.  I  got  Sandow 's  number  an'  I  know  it. 

"Now,  you  got  the  say-so  in  this.  If  you  say  yes,  the 
nags  is  ourn.  If  you  say  no,  then  it's  all  bets  off,  an' 
everything  all  right,  an'  I'll  take  to  harness- washin'  at  the 
stable  so  as  to  buy  a  couple  of  plugs.  Remember,  they'll 
only  be  plugs,  though.  But  don't  look  at  me  while  you're 
makin'  up  your  mind.  Keep  your  lamps  on  the  horses." 

It  was  with  painful  indecision  that  she  looked  at  the 
beautiful  animals. 

"Their  names  is  Hazel  an'  Hattie,"  Billy  put  in  a  sly 
wedge.  "If  we  get  'em  we  could  call  it  the  'Double  H' 
outfit." 

But  Saxon  forgot  the  team  and  could  only  see  Billy's 
frightfully  bruised  body  the  night  he  fought  the  Chicago 
Terror.  She  was  about  to  speak,  when  Billy,  who  had 
been  hanging  on  her  lips,  broke  in: 

"Just  hitch  'em  up  to  our  wagon  in  your  mind  an'  look 
at  the  outfit.  You  got  to  go  some  to  beat  it." 

"But  you're  not  in  training,  Billy,"  she  said  suddenly 
and  without  having  intended  to  say  it. 

"Huh!"  he  snorted.  "I've  ben  in  half  trainin'  for 
the  last  year.  My  legs  is  like  iron.  They'll  hold  me  up 
as  long  as  I've  got  a  punch  left  in  my  arms,  and  I  always 
have  that.  Besides,  I  won't  let  'm  make  a  long  fight. 
He's  a  man-eater,  an'  man-eaters  is  my  meat.  I  eat  'm 


448  THE   VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

alive.  It's  the  clever  boys  with  the  stamina  an'  endurance 
that  "i  can't  put  away.  But  this  young  Sandow's  my  meat. 
I  '11  get  'm  maybe  in  the  third  or  fourth  round — you  know, 
time  'm  in  a  rush  an'  hand  it  to  'm  just  as  easy.  It's  a 
lead-pipe  cinch,  I  tell  you.  Honest  to  God,  Saxon,  it's  a 
shame  to  take  the  money." 

"But  I  hate  to  think  of  you  all  battered  up,"  she  tern 
porized.  "If  I  didn't  love  you  so,  it  might  be  differentc 
And  then,  too,  you  might  get  hurt." 

Billy  laughed  in  contemptuous  pride  of  youth  and 
brawn. 

"You  won't  know  I've  ben  in  a  fight,  except  that  we'll 
own  Hazel  an'  Hattie  there.  An'  besides,  Saxon,  I  just 
gotta  stick  my  fist  in  somebody's  face  once  in  a  while. 
You  know  I  can  go  for  months  peaceable  an'  gentle  as  a 
lamb,  an'  then  my  knuckles  actually  begin  to  itch  to  land 
on  something.  Now,  it's  a  whole  lot  sensibler  to  land  on 
Young  Sandow  an'  get  three  hundred  for  it,  than  to  land 
on  some  hayseed  an'  get  hauled  up  an'  fined  before  some 
justice  of  the  peace.  Now  take  another  squint  at  Hazel 
an'  Hattie.  They're  regular  farm  furniture,  good  to 
breed  from  when  we  get  to  that  valley  of  the  moon.  An* 
they're  heavy  enough  to  turn  right  into  the  plowin',  too." 

The  evening  of  the  fight  at  quarter  past  eight,  Saxon 
parted  from  Billy.  At  quarter  past  nine,  with  hot  water, 
ice,  and  everything  ready  in  anticipation,  she  heard  the 
gate  click  and  Billy's  step  come  up  the  porch.  She  had 
agreed  to  the  fight  much  against  her  better  judgment, 
and  had  regretted  her  consent  every  minute  of  the  hour 
she  had  just  waited ;  so  that,  as  she  opened  the  front  door, 
she  was  expectant  of  any  sort  of  a  terrible  husband- wreck. 
But  the  Billy  she  saw  was  precisely  the  Billy  she  had 
parted  from. 

"There  was  no  fight?"  she  cried,  in  so  evident  disap- 
pointment that  he  laughed. 

"They  was  all  yellin'  'Fake!  Fake!'  when  I  left,  an* 
wantin'  their  money  back." 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     449 

"Well,  I've  got  you,"  she  laughed,  leading  him  in, 
though  secretly  she  sighed  farewell  to  Hazel  and  Hattie. 

"I  stopped  by  the  way  to  get  something  for  you  that 
you  've  ben  wantin '  some  time, ' '  Billy  said  casually.  * '  Shut 
your  eyes  an'  open  your  hand;  an'  when  you  open  your 
eyes  you'll  find  it  grand,''  he  chanted. 

Into  her  hand  something  was  laid  that  was  very  heavy 
and  very  cold,  and  when  her  eyes  opened  she  saw  it  was 
a  stack  of  fifteen  twenty-dollar  gold  pieces. 

"I  told  you  it  was  like  takin'  money  from  a  corpse," 
he  exulted,  as  he  emerged  grinning  from  the  whirlwind  of 
punches,  whacks,  and  hugs  in  which  she  had  enveloped 
him.  "They  wasn't  no  fight  at  all.  D'ye  want  to  know 
how  long  it  lasted  ?  Just  twenty-seven  seconds — less'n  half 
a  minute.  An '  how  many  blows  struck ?  One.  An' it  was 

me  that  done  it. Here,  I  '11  show  you.  It  was  just  like 

this — a  regular  scream." 

Billy  had  taken  his  place  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
slightly  crouching,  chin  tucked  against  the  sheltering  left 
shoulder,  fists  closed,  elbows  in  so  as  to  guard  left  side 
and  abdomen,  and  forearms  close  to  the  body. 

"It's  the  first  round,"  he  pictured.  "Gong's  sounded, 
an'  we've  shook  hands.  Of  course,  seein'  as  it's  a  long 
fight  an'  we've  never  seen  each  other  in  action,  we  ain't 
in  no  rush.  We're  just  feelin'  each  other  out  an'  fiddlin* 
around.  Seventeen  seconds  like  that.  Not  a  blow  struck. 
Nothin'.  An'  then  it's  all  off  with  the  big  Swede.  It 
takes  some  time  to  tell  it,  but  it  happened  in  a  jiffy,  in 
less'n  a  tenth  of  a  second.  I  wasn't  expectin'  it  myself. 
We're  awful  close  together.  His  left  glove  ain't  a  foot 
from  my  jaw,  an'  my  left  glove  ain't  a  foot  from  hisn. 
He  feints-  with  his  right,  an'  I  know  it's  a  feint,  an'  just 
hunch  up  my  left  shoulder  a  bit  an'  feint  with  my  right. 
That  draws  his  guard  over  just  about  an  inch,  an'  I  see 
my  openin'.  My  left  ain't  got  a  foot  to  travel.  I  don't 
draw  it  back  none.  I  start  it  from  where  it  is,  corkscrewin* 
around  his  right  guard  an'  pivotin'  at  the  waist  to  put 
the  weight  of  my  shoulder  into  the  punch.  An'  it  con- 


450  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

nects  ?  Square  on  the  point  of  the  chin,  sideways.   He 

drops  deado.  I  walk  back  to  my  corner,  an',  honest  to 
God,  Saxon,  I  can't  help  gigglin'  a  little,  it  was  that  easy. 
The  referee  stands  over  'm  an'  counts  'm  out.  He  never 
quivers.  The  audience  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it  an* 
sits  paralyzed.  His  seconds  carry  'm  to  his  corner  an'  set 
'm  on  the  stool.  But  they  gotta  hold  'm  up.  Five  minutes 
afterward  he  opens  his  eyes — but  he  ain't  seein'  nothing, 
They're  glassy.  Five  minutes  more,  an'  he  stands  up. 
They  got  to  help  hold  'm,  his  legs  givin'  under  'm  like 
they  was  sausages.  An'  the  seconds  has  to  help  'm  through 
the  ropes,  an'  they  go  down  the  aisle  to  his  dressin'  room 
a-helpin'  'm.  An'  the  crowd  beginning  to  yell  fake  an* 
want  its  money  back.  Twenty-seven  seconds — one  punch — • 
an'  a  spankin'  pair  of  horses  for  the  best  wife  Billy  Rob- 
erts ever  had  in  his  long  experience." 

All  of  Saxon's  old  physical  worship  of  her  husband  re- 
vived and  doubled  on  itself  many  times.  He  was  in  all 
truth  a  hero,  worthy  to  be  of  that  wing-helmeted  company 
leaping  from  the  beaked  boats  upon  the  bloody  English 
sands.  The  next  morning  he  was  awakened  by  her  lips 
pressed  on  his  left  hand. 

"Hey! — what  are  you  doin'?"  he  demanded. 

"Kissing  Hazel  End  Hattie  good  morning,"  she  an- 
swered demurely.  "And  now  I'm  going  to  kiss  you  good 
morning.  .  .  .  And  just  where  did  your  punch  land? 
• Show  me." 

Billy  complied,  touching  the  point  of  her  chin  with  his 
knuckles.  With  both  her  hands  on  his  arm,  she  shoved 
it  back  and  tried  to  draw  it  forward  sharply  in  similitude 
of  a  punch.  But  Billy  withstrained  her. 

"Wait,"  he  said.  "You  don't  want  to  knock  your  jaw 
off.  1 11  show  you.  A  quarter  of  an  inch  will  do." 

And  at  a  distance  of  a  quarter  of  an  inch  from  her  chin, 
he  administered  the  slightest  flick  of  a  tap. 

On  the  instant  Saxon's  brain  snapped  with  a  white 
flash  of  light,  while  her  whole  body  relaxed,  numb  and 
weak,  volitionless,  and  her  vision  reeled  and  blurred.  The 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     451 

next  instant  she  was  herself  again,  in  her  eyes  terror  and 
understanding. 

"And  it  was  at  a  foot  that  you  struck  him,"  she  mur- 
mured in  a  voice  of  awe. 

"Yes,  and  with  the  weight  of  my  shoulders  behind  it," 

Billy  laughed.  "Oh,  that's  nothing.  Here,  let  me 

show  you  something  else." 

He  searched  out  her  solar  plexus,  and  did  no  more  than 
snap  his  middle  finger  against  it.  This  time  she  experi- 
enced a  simple  paralysis,  accompanied  by  a  stoppage  of 
breath,  but  with  a  brain  and  vision  that  remained  per- 
fectly clear.  In  a  moment,  however,  all  the  unwonted  sen- 
sations were  gone. 

"Solar  plexus,"  Billy  elucidated.  "Imagine  what  it's 
like  when  the  other  fellow  lifts  a  wallop  to  it  all  the  way 
from  his  knees.  That's  the  punch  that  won  the  champion- 
ship of  the  world  for  Bob  Fitzsinunons. " 

Saxon  shuddered,  then  resigned  herself  to  Billy's  play- 
ful demonstration  of  the  weak  points  in  the  human  anat- 
omy. He  pressed  the  tip  of  a  finger  into  the  middle  of 
her  forearm,  and  she  knew  excruciating  agony.  On  either 
side  of  her  neck,  at  the  base,  he  dented  gently  with  his 
thumbs,  and  she  felt  herself  quickly  growing  unconscious. 

"That's  one  of  the  death  touches  of  the  Japs,"  he  told 
her,  and  went  on,  accompanying  grips  and  holds  with  a 
running  exposition.  "Here's  the  toe-hold  that  Gotch  de- 
feated Hackenschmidt  with.  I  learned  it  from  Farmer 

Burns.  An '  here 's  a  half -Nelson.  An '  here 's  you 

makin'  roughhouse  at  a  dance,  an'  I'm  the  floor  manager, 
an'  I  gotta  put  you  out." 

One  hand  grasped  her  wrist,  the  other  hand  passed 
around  and  under  her  forearm  and  grasped  his  own  wrist. 
And  at  the  first  hint  of  pressure  she  felt  that  her  arm 
was  a  pipe-stem  about  to  break. 

"That's  called  the  'come  along.'  An'  here's  the 

strong  arm.  A  boy  can  down  a  man  with  it.  An'  if 

you  ever  get  into  a  scrap  an'  the  other  fellow  gets  your 
nose  between  his  teeth — you  don't  want  to  lose  your  nose, 


452  THE    VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

do  you  ?    Well,  this  is  what  you  do,  quick  as  a  flask. " 

Involuntarily  she  closed  her  eyes  as  Billy's  thumb-ends 
pressed  into  them.  She  could  feel  the  fore-running  ache 
of  a  dull  and  terrible  hurt. 

"If  he  don't  let  go,  you  just  press  real  hard,  an'  out 
pop  his  eyes,  an'  he's  blind  as  a  bat  for  the  rest  of  his 
ijife.  Oh,  he'll  let  go  all  right  all  right." 

He  released  her  and  lay  back  laughing. 

"How  d'ye  feel?"  he  asked.  "Those  ain't  boxin'  tricks, 
but  they're  all  in  the  game  of  a  roughhouse." 

"I  feel  like  revenge,"  she  said,  trying  to  apply  the 
"come  along"  to  his  arm. 

When  she  exerted  the  pressure  she  cried  out  with  pain, 
for  she  had  succeeded  only  in  hurting  herself.  Billy 
grinned  at  her  futility.  She  dug  her  thumbs  into  his  neck 
in  imitation  of  the  Japanese  death  touch,  then  gazed  rue- 
fully at  the  bent  ends  of  her  nails.  She  punched  him 
smartly  on  the  point  of  the  chin,  and  again  cried  out,  this 
time  to  the  bruise  of  her  knuckles. 

"Well,  this  can't  hurt  me,"  she  gritted  through  her 
teeth,  as  she  assailed  his  solar  plexus  with  her  doubled 
fists. 

By  this  time  he  was  in  a  roar  of  laughter.  Under  the 
sheaths  of  muscles  that  were  as  armor,  the  fatal  nerve  cen- 
ter remained  impervious. 

"Go  on,  do  it  some  more,"  he  urged,  when  she  had  given 
up,  breathing  heavily.  "It  feels  fine,  like  you  was  ticklin' 
me  with  a  feather." 

"All  right,  Mister  Man,"  she  threatened  balefully. 
'You  can  talk  about  your  grips  and  death  touches  and 
all  the  rest,  but  that's  all  man's  game.  I  know  something 
that  will  beat  them  all,  that  will  make  a  strong  man  as 
helpless  as  a  baby.  Wait  a  minute  till  I  get  it.  There. 
Shut  your  eyes.  Ready?  I  won't  be  a  second." 

He  waited  with  closed  eyes,  and  then,  softly  as  rose 
petals  fluttering  down,  he  felt  her  lips  on  his  mouth. 

"You  win,"  he  said  in  solemn  ecstasy,  and  passed  hia 
arms  around  her. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

IN  the  morning  Billy  went  down  town  to  pay  for  Haze,, 
and  Hattie.  It  was  due  to  Saxon's  impatient  desire  to  see 
them,  that  he  seemed  to  lake  a  remarkably  long  time  about 
so  simple  a  transaction.  But  she  forgave  him  when  he 
arrived  with  »the  two  horses  hitched  to  the  camping  wagon. 

"Had  to  borrow  the  harness,"  he  said.  "Pass  Possum 
up  and  climb  in,  an'  I'll  show  you  the  Double  H  Outfit, 
which  is  some  outfit,  I'm  tellin'  you." 

Saxon's  delight  was  unbounded  and  almost  speechless 
as  they  drove  out  into  the  country  behind  the  dappled 
chestnuts  with  the  cream-colored  tails  and  manes.  The 
seat  was  upholstered,  high-backed,  and  comfortable;  and 
Billy  raved  about  the  wonders  of  the  efficient  brake.  He 
trotted  the  team  along  the  hard  county  road  to  show  the 
standard-going  in  them,  and  put  them  up  a  steep  earth- 
road,  almost  hub-deep  with  mud,  to  prove  that  the  light 
Belgian  sire  was  not  wanting  in  their  make-up. 

When  Saxon  at  last  lapsed  into  complete  silence,  he 
studied  her  anxiously,  with  quick  sidelong  glances.  She 
sighed  and  asked: 

"When  do  you  think  we'll  be  able  to  start?" 

"Maybe  in  two  weeks  .  .  .  or,  maybe  in  two  or  three 
months."  He  sighed  with  solemn  deliberation.  "We're 
like  the  Irishman  with  the  trunk  an'  nothin'  to  put  in  it. 
[Here's  the  wagon,  here's  the  horses,  an'  nothin'  to  pull. 
I  know  a  peach  of  a  shotgun  I  can  get,  second-hand, 
eighteen  dollars;  but  look  at  the  bills  we  owe.  Then 
there's  a  new  '22  Automatic  rifle  I  want  for  you.  An'  a 
30-30  I've  had  my  eye  on  for  deer.  An'  you  want 
a  good  .jointed  pole  as  well  as  me.  An'  tackle  costs  like 
Sam  Hill.  An'  harness  like  I  want  will  cost  fifty  bucks 
gold.  AfC  the  wagon  ought  to  be  painted.  Then  there's 
453 


454  THE   VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

pasture  ropes,  an'  nose-bags,  an'  a  harness  punch,  an'  all 
such  things.  An'  Hazel  an'  Hattie  eatin'  their  heads  off 
all  the  time  we're  waitin'.  An'  I'm  just  itchin'  to  be 
started  myself." 

He  stopped  abruptly  and  confusedly. 

"Now,  Billy,  what  have  you  got  up  your  sleeve? — I 
can  see  it  in  your  eyes,"  Saxon  demanded  and  indicted  in 
mixed  metaphors. 

"Well,  Saxon,  you  see,  it's  like  this.  Sandow  ain't  sat- 
isfied. He's  madder 'n  a  hatter.  Never  got  one  punch  at 
me.  Never  had  a  chance  to  make  a  showin',  an'  he  wants 
a  return  match.  He's  blattin'  around  town  that  he  can 
lick  me  with  one  hand  tied  behind  'm,  an'  all  that  kind  of 
hot  air.  "Which  ain't  the  point.  The  point  is,  the  fight- 
fans  is  wild  to  see  a  return-match.  They  didn't  get  a  run 
for  their  money  last  time.  They  '11  fill  the  house.  The  man- 
agers has  seen  me  already.  That  was  why  I  was  so  long. 
They's  three  hundred  more  waitin'  on  the  tree  for  me 
to  pick  two  weeks  from  last  night  if  you'll  say  the  word. 
It's  just  the  same  as  I  told  you  before.  He's  my  meat. 
He  still  thinks  I'm  a  rube,  an'  that  it  was  a  fluke  punch.'* 

"But,  Billy,  you  told  me  long  ago  that  fighting  took  the 
silk  out  of  you.  That  was  why  you'd  quit  it  and  stayed 
by  teaming." 

"Not  this  kind  of  nghtin',"  he  answered.  "I  got  this 
one  all  doped  out.  I'll  let  'm  last  till  about  the  seventh. 
Not  that  it  11  be  necessary,  but  just  to  give  the  audience 
a  run  for  its  money.  Of  course,  I'll  get  a  lump  or  two, 
an'  lose  some  skin.  Then  I'll  time  'm  to  that  glass  jaw 
of  his  an'  drop  'm  for  the  count.  An'  we'll  be  all  packed 
up,  an'  next  mornin'  we'll  pull  out.  What  d'ye  say?  Aw, 
come  on." 

Saturday  night,  two  weeks  later,  Saxon  ran  to  the  door 
when  the  gate  clicked.  Billy  looked  tired.  His  hair  was 
wet,  his  nose  swollen,  one  cheek  was  puffed,  there  was  skin 
missing  from  his  ears,  and  both  eyes  were  slightly  blood- 
&U&. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     455 

"I'm  darned  if  that  boy  didn't  fool  me,"  he  said,  as 
he  placed  the  roll  of  gold  pieces  in  her  hand  and  sat  down 
with  her  on  his  knees.  "He's  some  boy  when  he  geta 
extended.  Instead  of  stoppin'  'm  at  the  seventh,  he  kept 
me  hustlin'  till  the  fourteenth.  Then  I  got  'm  the  way  I 
said.  It's  too  bad  he's  got  a  glass  jaw.  He's  quicker 'n  I 
thought,  an'  he's  got  a  wallop  that  made  me  mighty  re- 
spectful from  the  second  round — an'  the  prettiest  little 
chop  an'  come-again  I  ever  saw.  But  that  glass  jaw! 
He  kept  it  in  cotton  wool  till  the  fourteenth  an'  then  I 
connected. 

" An',  say.  I'm  mighty  glad  it  did  last  fourteen 

rounds.  I  still  got  all  my  silk.  I  could  see  that  easy.  I 
wasn't  breathin'  much,  an'  every  round  was  fast.  An'  my 
legs  was  like  iron.  I  could  a-fought  forty  rounds.  You 
see,  I  never  said  iiothin',  but  I've  ben  suspicious  all  the 
time  after  that  beatin'  the  Chicago  Terror  gave  me." 

' '  Nonsense ! — you  would  have  known  it  long  before 
now,"  Saxon  cried.  "Look  at  all  your  boxing,  and  wrest- 
ling, and  running  at  Carmel." 

"Nope."  Billy  shook  his  head  with  the  conviction  of 
itter  knowledge.  ' '  That 's  different.  It  don 't  take  it  outa 
you.  You  gotta  be  up  against  the  real  thing,  fightin'  for 
life,  round  after  round,  with  a  husky  you  know  ain't  lost 
a  thread  of  his  silk  yet — then,  if  you  don't  blow  up,  if 
your  legs  is  steady,  an'  your  heart  ain't  burstin',  an' 
you  ain't  wobbly  at  all,  an'  no  signs  of  queer  street  in 
your  head — why,  then  you  know  you  still  got  all  your  silk. 
An'  I  got  it,  I  got  all  mine,  d'ye  hear  me,  an'  I  ain't  goin' 
to  risk  it  on  no  more  fights.  That's  straight.  Easy 
money 's  hardest  in  the  end.  From  now  on  it 's  horse-buyin ' 
on  commish,  an'  you  an'  me  on  the  road  till  we  find  that 
valley  of  the  moon." 

Next  morning,  early,  they  drove  out  of  Ukiah.  Possum 
sat  on  the  seat  between  them,  his  rosy  mouth  agape  with 
excitement.  They  had  originally  planned  to  cross  over 
to  the  coast  from  Ukiah,  but  it  was  too  early  in  the  sea- 


456  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

son  for  the  soft  earth-roads  to  be  in  shape  after  the  win- 
ter rains;  so  they  turned  east,  for  Lake  County,  their 
route  to  extend  north  through  the  upper  Sacramento  Val- 
ley and  across  the  mountains  into  Oregon.  Then  they 
would  circle  west  to  the  coast,  where  the  roads  by  that 
time  would  be  in  condition,  and  come  down  its  length  to 
the  Golden  Gate. 

All  the  land  was  green  and  flower-sprinkled,  and  each 
tiny  valley,  as  they  entered  the  hills,  was  a  garden. 

"Huh!"  Billy  remarked  scornfully  to  the  general  land- 
scape. "They  say  a  rollin'  stone  gathers  no  moss.  Just 
the  same  this  looks  like  some  outfit  we've  gathered.  Never 
had  so  much  actual  property  in  my  life  at  one  time — an' 
them  was  the  days  when  I  wasn't  rollin'.  Hell — even  the 
furniture  wasn.'t  ourn.  Only  the  clothes  we  stood  up  in, 
an'  some  old  socks  an'  things." 

Saxon  reached  out  and  touched  his  hand,  and  he  knew 
that  it  was  a  hand  that  loved  his  hand. 

"I've  only  one  regret,"  she  said.  "You've  earned  it 
all  yourself.  I've  had  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"Huh! — you've  had  everything  to  do  with  it.  You'r* 
like  my  second  in  a  fight.  You  keep  me  happy  an'  in 
condition.  A  man  can't  fight  without  a  good  second  to 

take  care  of  him.  Hell,  I  wouldn't  a-ben  here  if  it 

wasn't  for  you.  You  made  me  pull  up  stakes  an'  head 
out.  Why,  if  it  hadn't  ben  for  you  I'd  a-drunk  myself 
dead  an'  rotten  by  this  time,  or  had  my  neck  stretched  at 
San  Quentin  over  hittin'  some  scab  too  hard  or  something 
/or  other.  An' look  at  me  now.  Look  at  that  roll  of  green- 
| backs" — he  tapped  his  breast — "to  buy  the  Boss  some 
horses.  Why,  we're  takin'  an  unendin'  vacation,  an' 
makin'  a  good  livin'  at  the  same  time.  An'  one  more 
trade  I  got— horse-buyin '  for  Oakland.  If  I  show  I've  got 
the  savve,  an'  I  have,  all  the  Frisco  firms  11  be  after  me 
to  buy  for  them.  An'  it's  all  your  fault.  You're  my 
Tonic  Kid  all  right,  all  right,  an'  if  Possum  wasn't 
lookin',  I'd — well,  who  cares  if  he  does  look?" 

And  Billy  leaned  toward  her  sidewise  and  kissed  her. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      457 

The  way  grew  hard  and  rocky  as  they  began  to  climb, 
but  the  divide  was  an  easy  one,  and  they  soon  dropped 
clown  the  canyon  of  the  Blue  Lakes  among  lush  fields  of 
golden  poppies.  In  the  bottom  of  the  canyon  lay  a  wan- 
dering sheet  of  water  of  intensest  blue.  Ahead,  the  folds 
of  hills  interlaced  the  distance,  with  a  remote  blue  moun- 
tain rising  in  the  center  of  the  picture. 

They  asked  questions  of  a  handsome,  black-eyed  mail 
with  curly  gray  hair,  who  talked  to  them  in  a  German 
accent,  while  a  cheery-faced  woman  smiled  down  at  them 
out  of  a  trellised  high  window  of  the  Swiss  cottage  perched 
on  the  bank.  Billy  watered  the  horses  at  a  pretty  hotel 
farther  on,  where  the  proprietor  came  out  and  talked  and 
told  him  he  had  built  it  himself,  according  to  the  plans 
of  the  black-eyed  man  with  the  curly  gray  hair,  who  was 
a  San  Francisco  architect. 

"Goin'  up,  goin'  up,"  Billy  chortled,  as  they  drove  on 
through  the  winding  hills  past  another  lake  of  intensest 
blue.  "D'ye  notice  the  difference  in  our  treatment  al- 
ready between  ridin'  an'  walkin'  with  packs  on  our  backs? 
With  Hazel  an'  Hattie  an'  Saxon  an'  Possum,  an'  yours 
truly,  an'  this  high-toned  wagon,  folks  most  likely  take 
us  for  millionaires  out  on  a  lark." 

The  way  widened.  Broad,  oak-studded  pastures  with 
grazing  livestock  lay  on  either  hand.  Then  Clear  Lake 
opened  before  them  like  an  inland  sea,  flecked  with  little 
squalls  and  flaws  of  wind  from  the  high  mountains  on 
the  northern  slopes  of  which  still  glistened  white  snow 
patches. 

"I've  heard  Mrs.  Hazard  rave  about  Lake  Geneva," 
Saxon  recalled;  "but  I  wonder  if  it  is  more  beautiful 
than  this." 

"That  architect  fellow  called  this  the  California  Alps, 
you  remember,"  Billy  confirmed.  "An'  if  I  don't  mis- 
take, that's  Lakeport  showin'  up  ahead.  An,'  all  wild 
country,  an '  no  railroads. ' ' 

"And  no  moon  valleys  here,"  Saxon  criticized.  "But  it 
is  beautiful,  oh,  so  beautiful." 


458  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

" Hotter 'n  hell  in  the  dead  of  summer,  I'll  bet,"  was 
Billy's  opinion.  "Nope,  the  country  we're  lookin'  for  lies 
nearer  the  coast.  Just  the  same  it  is  beautiful  .  .  . 
like  a  picture  on  the  wall.  What  d'ye  say  we  stop  off  an' 
go  for  a  swim  this  afternoon?" 

Ten  days  later  they  drove  into  "Williams,  in  Colusa 
County,  and  for  the  first  time  again  encountered  a  rail- 
road. Billy  was  looking  for  it,  for  the  reason  that  at  the 
rear  of  the  wagon  walked  two  magnificent  work-horses 
which  he  had  picked  up  for  shipment  to  Oakland. 

"Too  hot,"  was  Saxon's  verdict,  as  she  gazed  across  the 
shimmering  level  of  the  vast  Sacramento  Valley.  "No 
redwoods.  No  hills.  No  forests.  No  manzanita.  No  ma- 
dronos. Lonely,  and  sad " 

"An'  like  the  river  islands,"  Billy  interpolated. 
"  Richer  'n  hell,  but  looks  too  much  like  hard  work.  It'll 
do  for  those  that's  stuck  on  hard  work — God  knows,  they 'a 
nothin'  here  to  induce  a  fellow  to  knock  off  ever  for  a  bit 
of  play.  No  fishin',  no  huntin',  nothin'  but  work.  I'd 
work  myself,  if  I  had  to  live  here." 

North  they  drove,  through  days  of  heat  and  dust,  across 
the  California  plains,  and  everywhere  was  manifest  the 
"new"  farming — great  irrigation  ditches,  dug  and  being 
dug,  the  land  threaded  by  power-lines  from  the  mountains, 
and  many  new  farmhouses  on  small  holdings  newly  fenced. 
The  bonanza  farms  were  being  broken  up.  However,  many 
of  the  great  estates  remained,  five  to  ten  thousand  acres  in 
extent,  running  from  the  Sacramento  bank  to  the  horizon 
dancing  in  the  heat  waves,  and  studded  with  great  valley 
oaks. 

"It  takes  rich  soil  to  make  trees  like  those,"  a  ten-acre 
farmer  told  them. 

They  had  driven  off  the  road  a  hundred  feet  to  his  tiny 
barn  in  order  to  water  Hazel  and  Hattie.  A  sturdy 
young  orchard  covered  most  of  his  ten  acres,  though  a 
goodly  portion  was  devoted  to  whitewashed  henhouses 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      459 

and  wired  runways  wherein  hundreds  of  chickens  were 
to  be  seen.  He  had  just  begun  work  on  a  small  frame 
dwelling. 

''I  took  a  vacation  when  I  bought,"  he  explained,  "and 
planted  the  trees.  Then  I  went  back  to  work  an'  stayed 
with  it  till  the  place  was  cleared.  Now  I  'm  here  for  keeps, 
an'  soon  as  the  house  is  finished  I'll  send  for  the  wife. 
She's  not  very  well,  and  it  will  do  her  good.  "We've  been 
planning  and  working  for  years  to  get  away  from  the 
city."  He  stopped  in  order  to  give  a  happy  sigh.  "And 
now  we're  free." 

The  water  in  the  trough  was  warm  from  the  sun. 

"Hold  on,"  the  man  said.  "Don't  let  them  drink  that. 
I'll  give  it  to  them  cool." 

Stepping  into  a  small  shed,  he  turned  an  electric  switch, 
and  a  motor  the  size  of  a  fruit  box  hummed  into  action. 
A  five-inch  stream  of  sparkling  water  splashed  into  the 
shallow  main  ditch  of  his  irrigation  system  and  flowed  away 
across  the  orchard  through  many  laterals. 

"Isn't  it  beautiful,  eh? — beautiful!  beautiful!"  the  man 
chanted  in  an  ecstasy.  "It's  bud  and  fruit.  It's  blood 
and  life.  Look  at  it!  It  makes  a  gold  mine  laughable, 
and  a  saloon  a  nightmare.  I  know.  I  ...  I  used  to 
be  a  barkeeper.  In  fact,  I've  been  a  barkeeper  most  of 
my  life.  That's  how  I  paid  for  this  place.  And  I've 
hated  the  business  all  the  time.  I  was  a  farm  boy,  and 
all  my  life  I've  been  wanting  to  get  back  to  it.  And 
here  I  am  at  last." 

He  wiped  his  glasses  the  better  to  behold  his  beloved 
water,  then  seized  a  hoe  and  strode  down  the  main  ditch 
to  open  more  laterals. 

"He's  the  funniest  barkeeper  I  ever  seen,"  Billy  com- 
mented. "I  took  him  for  a  business  man  of  some  sort. 
Must  a-ben  in  some  kind  of  a  qu?et  hotel." 

"Don't  drive  on  right  away,"  Saxon  requested.  "I 
want  to  talk  with  him." 

He  came  back,  polishing  his  glasses,  his  face  beaming, 
watching  the  water  as  if  fascinated  by  it  It  required  no 


460  THE   VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

more  exertion  on  Saxon's  part  to  start  him  than  had  been 
required  on  his  part  to  start  the  motor. 

"The  pioneers  settled  all  thi?  ^  *l--t,  early  fifties,"  he 
said.  "The  Mexicans  never  got  this  far,  so  it  was  govern- 
ment land.  Everybody  got  a  hundred  and  sixty  acres. 
And  such  acres!  The  stories  they  tell  about  how  much 
wheat  they  got  to  the  acre  are  almost  unbelievable.  Then 
several  things  happened.  The  sharpest  and  steadiest  of 
the  pioneers  held  what  they  had  and  added  to  it  from  the 
other  fellows.  It  takes  a  great  many  quarter  sections  to 
make  a  bonanza  farm.  It  wasn't  long  before  it  was  'most 
all  bonanza  farms." 

"They  were  the  successful  gamblers,"  Saxon  put  in, 
remembering  Mark  Hall's  words. 

The  man  nodded  appreciatively  and  continued. 

"The  old  folks  schemed  and  gathered  and  added  the 
land  into  the  big  holdings,  and  built  tb*?  great  barns  and 
mansions,  and  planted  the  house  orchards  and  flower  gar- 
dens. The  young  folks  were  spoiled  by  so  much  wealth 
and  went  away  to  the  cities  to  spend  it.  And  old  folks  and 
young  united  in  one  thing:  in  impoverishing  the  soil. 
Year  after  year  they  scratched  it  and  took  out  bonanza 
crops.  They  put  nothing  back.  All  they  left  was  plow- 
sole  and  exhausted  land.  Why,  there's  big  sections  they 
exhausted  and  left  almost  desert. 

"The  bonanza  farmers  are  all  gone  now,  thank  the  Lord, 
and  here's  where  we  small  farmers  come  into  our  own. 
It  won't  be  many  years  before  the  whole  valley  will  be 
farmed  in  patches  like  mine.  Look  at  what  we're  doing! 
Worked-out  land  that  had  ceased  to  grow  wheat,  and  we 
turn  the  water  on,  treat  the  soil  decently,  and  see  our 
orchards ! 

"We've  got  the  water — from  the  mountains,  and  from 
under  the  ground.  I  was  reading  an  account  the  other 
day.  All  life  depends  on  food.  All  food  depends  on  water. 
It  takes  a  thousand  pounds  of  water  to  produce  one  pound 
of  food;  ten  thousand  pounds  to  produce  one  pound  of 
meat.  How  much  water  do  you  drink  in  a  year?  About  a 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     461 

ton.  But  you  eat  about  two  hundred  pounds  of  vegetables 
and  two  hundred  pounds  of  meat  a  year — which  means  you 
consume  one  hundred  tons  of  water  in  the  vegetables  and 
one  thousand  tons  in  the  meat — which  means  that  it  takes 
eleven  hundred  and  one  tons  of  water  each  year  to  keep 
a  small  woman  like  you  going." 

"Gee!"  was  all  Billy  could  say. 

"You  see  how  population  depends  upon  water,"  the 
ex-barkeeper  went  on.  "Well,  we've  got  the  water,  im- 
mense subterranean  supplies,  and  in  not  many  years  this 
valley  will  be  populated  as  thick  as  Belgium." 

Fascinated  by  the  five-inch  stream,  sluiced  out  of  the 
earth  and  back  to  the  earth  by  the  droning  motor,  he  for- 
got his  discourse  and  stood  and  gazed,  rapt  and  unheeding, 
while  his  visitors  drove  on. 

"An'  him  a  drink-slinger ! "  Billy  marveled.  "He  can 
sure  sling  the  temperance  dope  if  anybody  should  ask 
you." 

"It's  lovely  to  think  about — all  that  water,  and  all  the 
happy  people  that  will  come  here  to  live " 

"But  it  ain't  the  valley  of  the  moon!"  Billy  laughed. 

"No,"  she  responded.  "They  don't  have  to  irrigate 
in  the  valley  of  the  moon,  unless  for  alfalfa  and  such  crops. 
What  we  want  is  the  water  bubbling  naturally  from  the 
ground,  and  crossing  the  farm  in  little  brooks,  and  on 
the  boundary  a  fine  big  creek " 

"With  trout  in  it!"  Billy  took  her  up.     "An*  willows 

and  trees  of  all  kinds  growing  along  the  edges,  and  here 

a  riffle  where  you  can  flip  out  trout,  and  there  a  deep  pool 

where  you  can  swim  and  high-dive.     An'  kingfishers,  an' 

' rabbits  comin'  down  to  drink,  an',  maybe,  a  deer." 

"And  meadowlarks  in  the  pasture,"  Saxon  added.  "And 
mourning  doves  in  the  trees.  We  must  have  mourning 
doves — and  the  big,  gray  tree-squirrels." 

"Gee! — that  valley  of  the  moon's  goin'  to  be  some  val- 
ley," Billy  meditated,  flicking  a  fly  away  with  his  whip 
from  Hattie's  side.  "Think  we'll  ever  find  it?" 

Saxon  nodded  her  head  with  great  certitude. 


462  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

"Just  as  the  Jews  found  the  promised  land,  and  the 
Mormons  Utah,  and  the  Pioneers  California.  You  remem- 
ber the  last  advice  we  got  when  we  left  Oakland?  *  'Tis 
them  that  looks  that  finds.'  " 


CHAPTER  XV 

EVER  north,  through  a  fat  and  nourishing  rejuvenated 
land,  stopping  at  the  towns  of  Willows,  Bed  Bluff  and 
Bedding,  crossing  the  counties  of  Colusa,  Glenn,  Tehama, 
and  Shasta,  went  the  spruce  wagon  drawn  by  the  dappled 
chestnuts  with  cream-colored  manes  and  tails.  Billy 
picked  up  only  three  horses  for  shipment,  although  he 
visited  many  farms;  and  Saxon  talked  with  the  women 
while  he  looked  over  the  stock  with  the  men.  And  Saxon 
grew  the  more  convinced  that  the  valley  she  sought  lay  not 
there. 

At  Bedding  they  crossed  the  Sacramento  on  a  cable 
ferry,  and  made  a  day's  scorching  traverse  through  roll- 
ing foot-hills  and  flat  tablelands.  The  heat  grew  more 
insupportable,  and  the  trees  and  shrubs  were  blasted  and 
dead.  Then  they  came  again  to  the  Sacramento,  where 
the  great  smelters  of  Kennett  explained  the  destruction 
of  the  vegetation. 

They  climbed  out  of  the  smelting  town,  where  eyrie 
houses  perched  insecurely  on  a  precipitous  landscape.  It 
was  a  broad,  well-engineered  road  that  took  them  up  a 
grade  miles  long  and  plunged  down  into  the  Canyon  of 
the  Sacramento.  The  road,  rock-surfaced  and  easy-graded, 
hewn  out  of  the  canyon  wall,  grew  so  narrow  that  Billy 
worried  for  fear  of  meeting  opposite-bound  teams.  Far 
below,  the  river  frothed  and  flowed  over  pebbly  shallows, 
or  broke  tumultuously  over  boulders  and  cascades,  in  its 
race  for  the  great  valley  they  had  left  behind. 

Sometimes,  on  the  wider  stretches  of  road,  Saxon  drove 
and  Billy  walked  to  lighten  the  load.  She  insisted  on  tak- 
ing her  turns  at  walking,  and  when  he  breathed  the  pant- 
ing mares  on  the  steep,  and  Saxon  stood  by  their  heads 
463 


464  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

caressing  them  and  cheering  them,  Billy's  joy  was  too 
deep  for  any  turn  of  speech  as  he  gazed  at  his  beautiful 
horses  and  his  glowing  girl,  trim  and  colorful  in  her 
golden  brown  corduroy,  the  brown  corduroy  calves  swell- 
ing sweetly  under  the  abbreviated  slim  skirt.  And  when 
her  answering  look  of  happiness  came  to  him — a  sudden 
dimness  in  her  straight  gray  eyes — he  was  overmastered 
by  the  knowledge  that  he  must  say  something  or  burst. 

"0,  you  kid!"  he  cried. 

And  with  radiant  face  she  answered,  ' '  0,  you  kid ! ' ' 

They  camped  one  night  in  a  deep  dent  in  the  canyon, 
where  was  snuggled  a  box-factory  village,  and  where  a 
toothless  ancient,  gazing  with  faded  eyes  at  their  travel- 
ing outfit,  asked :  "Be  you  showin '  ? " 

They  passed  Castle  Crags,  mighty-bastioned  and  glow- 
ing red  against  the  palpitating  blue  sky.  They  caught 
their  first  glimpse  of  Mt.  Shasta,  a  rose-tinted  snow-peak 
rising,  a  sunset  dream,  between  and  beyond  green  inter- 
lacing walls  of  canyon — a  landmark  destined  to  be  with 
them  for  many  days.  At  unexpected  turns,  after  mount- 
ing some  steep  grade,  Shasta  would  appear  again,  still 
distant,  now  showing  two  peaks  and  glacial  fields  of  shim- 
mering white.  Miles  and  miles  and  days  and  days  they 
climbed,  with  Shasta  ever  developing  new  forms  and 
phases  in  her  summer  snows. 

"A  moving  picture  in  the  sky,"  said  Billy  at  last. 

"Oh, — it  is  all  so  beautiful,"  sighed  Saxon.  "But  there 
are  no  moon- valleys  here." 

They  encountered  a  plague  of  butterflies,  and  for  days 
drove  through  untold  millions  of  the  fluttering  beauties 
that  covered  the  road  with  uniform  velvet-brown.  And 
ever  the  road  seemed  to  rise  under  the  noses  of  the  snort- 
ing mares,  filling  the  air  with  noiseless  flight,  drifting 
down  the  breeze  in  clouds  of  brown  and  yellow  soft-flaked 
as  snow,  and  piling  in  mounds  against  the  fences,  even 
driven  to  float  helplessly  on  the  irrigation  ditches  along 
the  roadside.  Hazel  and  Hattie  soon  grew  used  to  them, 
though  Possum  never  ceased  being  made  frantic. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      465 

"Huh! — who  ever  heard  of  butterfly-broke  horses?" 
Billy  chaffed.  "That's  worth  fifty  bucks  more  on  their 
price." 

"Wait  till  you  get  across  the  Oregon  line  into  the  Rogue 
River  Valley,"  they  were  told.  "There's  God's  Paradise 
—climate,  scenery,  and  fruit-farming;  fruit  ranches  that 
/ield  two  hundred  per  cent,  on  a  valuation  of  five  hundred 
dollars  an  acre." 

' '  Gee ! ' '  Billy  said,  when  he  had  driven  on  out  of  hear- 
ing; "that's  too  rich  for  our  digestion." 

And  Saxon  said,  "I  don't  know  about  apples  in  the 
valley  of  the  moon,  but  I  do  know  that  the  yield  is  ten 
thousand  per  cent,  of  happiness  on  a  valuation  of  one 
Billy,  one  Saxon,  a  Hazel,  a  Hattie.  and  a  Possum." 

Through  Siskiyou  County  and  across  high  mountains, 
they  came  to  Ashland  and  Medford  and  camped  beside 
the  wild  Rogue  River. 

"This  is  wonderful  and  glorious,"  pronounced  Saxon; 
"but  it  is  not  the  valley  of  the  moon." 

"Nope,  it  ain't  the  valley  of  the  moon,"  agreed  Billy, 
and  he  said  it  on  the  evening  of  the  day  he  hooked  a  mon- 
ster steelhead,  standing  to  his  neck  in  the  ice-cold  water 
of  the  Rogue  and  fighting  for  forty  minutes,  with  scream- 
ing reel,  ere  he  drew  his  finny  prize  to  the  bank  and  with 
the  scalp-yell  of  a  Comanche  jumped  and  clutched  it  by 
the  gills. 

"  'Them  that  looks  finds,'  "  predicted  Saxon,  as  they 
drew  north  out  of  Grant's  Pass,  and  held  north  across 
the  mountains  and  fruitful  Oregon  valleys. 

One  day,  in  camp  by  the  Umpqua  River,  Billy  bent  over 
to  begin  skinning  the  first  deer  he  had  ever  shot.  He 
raised  his  eyes  to  Saxon  and  remarked : 

"If  I  didn't  know  California,  I  guess  Oregon 'd  suit  me 
from  the  ground  up." 

In  the  evening,  replete  with  deer  meat,  resting  on 
his  elbow  and  smoking  his  after-supper  cigarette,  he 
sairt  .- 

"Maybe  they  ain't  no  valley  of  the  moon.    An'  if  they 


466  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

ain't,  what  of  it?  We  could  keep  on  this  way  forever. 
I  don't  ask  nothing  better." 

"There  is  a  valley  of  the  moon,"  Saxon  answered  so- 
berly. ' '  And  we  are  going  to  find  it.  We  've  got  to.  Why, 
Billy,  it  would  never  do,  never  to  settle  down.  There 
would  be  no  little  Hazels  and  little  Hatties,  nor  little 
,  .  .  Billies " 

"Nor  little  Saxons,"  Billy  interjected. 

"Nor  little  Possums,"  she  hurried  on,  nodding  her  head 
and  reaching  out  a  caressing  hand  to  where  the  fox  terrier 
was  ecstatically  gnawing  a  deer-rib.  A  vicious  snarl  and 
a  wicked  snap  that  barely  missed  her  fingers  were  her 
reward. 

"Possum!"  she  cried  in  sharp  reproof,  again  extending 
Ker  hand. 

"Don't,"  Billy  warned.  "He  can't  help  it,  and  he's 
likely  to  get  you  next  time." 

Even  more  compelling  was  the  menacing  threat  that 
Possum  growled,  his  jaws  close-guarding  the  bone,  eyes 
blazing  insanely,  the  hair  rising  stiffly  on  his  neck. 

"It's  a  good  dog  that  sticks  up  for  its  bone,"  Billy 
championed.  "I  wouldn't  care  to  own  one  that  didn't." 

"But  it's  my  Possum,"  Saxon  protested.  "And  he 
loves  me.  Besides,  he  must  love  me  more  than  an  old 

bone.  And  he  must  mind  me.  Here,  you,  Possum, 

give  me  that  bone!  Give  me  that  bone,  sir!" 

Her  hand  went  out  gingerly,  and  the  growl  rose  in 
volume  and  key  till  it  culminated  in  a  snap. 

"I  tell  you  it's  instinct,"  Billy  repeated.  "He  does 
love  you,  but  he  just  can't  help  doin'  it." 

"He's  got  a  right  to  defend  his  bones  from  strangers, 
but  not  from  his  mother,"  Saxon  argued.  "I  shall  make 
Mm  give  up  that  bone  to  mo." 

' '  Fox  terriers  is  awful  highstrung,  Saxon.  You  '11  likely 
get  him  hysterical." 

But  she  was  obstinately  set  in  her  purpose.  She  picked 
up  a  short  stick  of  firewood. 

"Now,  sir,  give  me  that  bone." 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      467 

She  threatened  with  the  stick,  and  the  dog's  growling 
became  ferocious.  Again  he  snapped,  then  crouched  back 
over  his  bone.  Saxon  raised  the  stick  as  if  to  strike 
him,  and  he  suddenly  abandoned  the  bone,  rolled  over  on 
his  back  at  her  feet,  four  legs  in  the  air,  his  ears  lying 
meekly  back,  his  eyes  swimming  and  eloquent  with  sub- 
mission and  appeal. 

"My  God!"  Billy  breathed  in  solemn  awe.  "Look  at 
it! — presenting  his  solar  plexus  to  you,  his  vitals  an'  his 
life,  all  defense  down,  as  much  as  sayin':  'Here  I  am. 
Stamp  on  me.  Kick  the  life  outa  me.  I  love  you,  I  am 
your  slave,  but  I  just  can't  help  defendin'  my  bone.  My 
instinct's  stronger 'n  me.  Kill  me,  but  I  can't  help  it." 

Saxon  was  melted.  Tears  were  in  her  eyes  as  she 
stooped  and  gathered  the  mite  of  an  animal  in  her  arms. 
Possum  was  in  a  frenzy  of  agitation,  whining,  trembling, 
writhing,  twisting,  licking  her  face,  all  for  forgiveness. 

"Heart  of  gold  with  a  rose  in  his  mouth,"  Saxon 
crooned,  burying  her  face  in  the  soft  and  quivering  bundle 
of  sensibilities.  "Mother  is  sorry.  She'll  never  bother 
you  again  that  way.  There,  there,  little  love.  See? 
There's  your  bone.  Take  it." 

She  put  him  down,  but  he  hesitated  between  her  and  the 
bone,  patently  looking  to  her  for  surety  of  permission, 
yet  continuing  to  tremble  in  the  terrible  struggle  between 
duty  and  desire  that  seemed  tearing  him  asunder.  Not 
until  she  repeated  that  it  was  all  right  and  nodded  her 
vhead  consentingly  did  he  go  to  the  bone.  And  once,  a 
minute  later,  he  raised  his  head  with  a  sudden  startle 
and  gazed  inquiringly  at  her.  She  nodded  and  smiled,  and 
Possum,  with  a  happy  sigh  of  satisfaction,  dropped  his 
•head  down  to  the  precious  deer-rib. 

"That  Mercedes  was  right  when  she  said  men  fought 
over  jobs  like  dogs  over  bones,"  Billy  enunciated  slowly. 
"It's  instinct.  Why,  I  couldn't  no  more  help  reaching 
my  fist  to  the  point  of  a  scab's  jaw  than  could  Possum  from 
snappin'  at  you.  They's  no  explainin'  it.  What  a  man  has 
to,  he  has  to.  The  fact  that  he  does  a  thing  shows  he  had  to 


468  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

do  it  whether  he  can  explain  it  or  not.  You  remember  Hall 
couldn't  explain  why  he  stuck  that  stick  between  Timothy 
McManus's  legs  in  the  foot  race.  What  a  man  has  to,  he  has 
to.  That's  all  I  know  about  it.  I  never  had  no  earthly  rea- 
son to  beat  up  that  lodger  we  had,  Jimmy  Harmon.  He  was 
a  good  guy,  square  an'  all  right.  But  I  just  had  to,  with  the*, 
strike  goin'  to  smash,  an'  everything  so  bitter  inside  me*^ 
that  I  could  taste  it.  I  never  told  you,  but  I  saw  'm  once; 
after  I  got  out — when  my  arms  was  mendin'.  I  went* 
down  to  the  roundhouse  an'  waited  for  'm  to  come  in  off 
a  run,  an'  apologized  to  'm.  Now  why  did  I  apologize? 
I  don't  know,  except  for  the  same  reason  I  punched  'm — I 
just  had  to." 

And  so  Billy  expounded  the  why  of  like  in  terms  of 
realism,  in  the  camp  by  the  Umpqua  River,  while  Possum 
expounded  it,  in  similar  terms  of  fang  and  appetite^  on 
the  rib  of  deer. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

WITH  Possum  on  the  seat  beside  her,  Saxon  drove  into 
the  town  of  Roseburg.  She  drove  at  a  walk.  At  the  back 
of  the  wagon  were  tied  two  heavy  young  work-horses. 
Behind,  half  a  dozen  more  marched  free,  and  the  rear 
was  brought  up  by  Billy,  astride  a  ninth  horse.  All  these 
he  shipped  from  Roseburg  to  the  West  Oakland  stables. 

It  was  in  the  Umpqua  Valley  that  they  heard  the  parable 
of  the  white  sparrow.  The  farmer  who  told  it  was  elderly 
and  nourishing.  His  farm  was  a  model  of  orderliness  and 
system.  Afterwards,  Billy  heard  neighbors  estimate  his 
wealth  at  a  quarter  of  a  million. 

"You've  heard  the  story  of  the  farmer  and  the  white 
sparrow?"  he  asked  Billy,  at  dinner. 

"Never  heard  of  a  white  sparrow  even,"  Billy  an- 
swered. 

"I  must  say  they're  pretty  rare,"  the  farmer  owned. 
"But  here's  the  story:  Once  there  was  a  farmer  who 
wasn't  making  much  of  a  success.  Things  just  didn't 
seem  to  go  right,  till  at  last,  one  day,  he  heard  about  the 
wonderful  white  sparrow.  It  seems  that  the  white  spar- 
row comes  out  only  just  at  daybreak  with  the  first  light 
of  dawn,  and  that  it  brings  all  kinds  of  good  luck  to 
»the  farmer  that  is  fortunate  enough  to  catch  it.  Next 
morning  our  farmer  was  up  at  daybreak,  and  before,  look- 
'ing  for  it.  And,  do  you  know,  he  sought  for  it  continu- 
ally, for  months  and  months,  and  never  caught  even  a 
glimpse  of  it. ' '  Their  host  shook  his  head.  ' '  No ;  he 
never  found  it,  but  h«*  found  so  many  things  about  the 
farm  needing  attention,  and  which  he  attended  to  before 
breakfast,  that  before  he  knew  it  the  farm  was  prospering, 
and  it  wasn't  long  before  the  mortgage  was  paid  off  and 
he  was  starting  a  bank  account." 


470  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

That  afternoon,  as  they  drove  along,  Billy  was  plunged 
in  a  deep  reverie. 

"Oh,  I  got  the  point  all  right,"  he  said  finally.  "An* 
jet  I  ain't  satisfied.  Of  course,  they  wasn't  a  white  spar- 
row, but  by  getting  up  early  an'  attendin'  to  things  he'd 
ben  slack  about  before — oh.  I  got  it  all  right.  An'  yet, 
Saxon,  if  that's  what  a  farmer's  life  means,  I  don't  want 
to  find  no  nioon  valley.  Life  ain't  hard  work.  Daylight 
to  dark,  hard  at  it — might  just  as  well  be  in  the  city. 
What's  the  difference?  All  the  time  you've  got  to  yourself 
js  for  sleepin',  an'  when  you're  sleepin'  you're  not  en- 
joyin'  yourself.  An'  what's  it  matter  where  you  sleep, 
you're  deado.  Might  as  well  be  dead  an'  done  with  it 
as  work  your  head  off  that  way.  I'd  sooner  stick  to  the 
road,  an'  shoot  a  deer  an'  catch  a  trout  once  in  a  while, 
an'  lie  on  my  back  in  the  shade,  an'  laugh  with  you  an' 
have  fun  with  you,  an'  .  .  .  an'  go  swimmin'.  An'  I'm 
a  willin'  worker,  too.  But  they's  all  the  difference  in  the 
world  between  a  decent  amount  of  work  an'  workin'  your 
head  off." 

Saxon  was  in  full  accord.  She  looked  back  on  her  years 
of  toil  and  contrasted  them  with  the  joyous  life  she  had 
lived  on  the  road. 

""We  don't  want  to  be  rich,"  she  said.  "Let  them 
hunt  their  white  sparrows  in  the  Sacramento  islands  and 
the  irrigation  valleys.  When  we  get  up  early  in  the  val- 
ley of  the  moon,  it  will  be  to  hear  the  birds  sing  and 
sing  with  them.  And  if  we  work  hard  at  times,  it  will 
be  only  so  that  we'll  have  more  time  to  play.  And  when 
you  go  swimming  I'm  going  with  you.  And  we'll  play 
so  hard  that  we'll  be  glad  to  work  for  relaxation." 

"I'm  gettin'  plumb  dried  out,"  Billy  announced,  mop- 
ping the  sweat  from  his  sunburned  forehead.  "What  d'ye 
say  we  head  for  the  coast?" 

West  they  turned,  dropping  down  wild  mountain  gorges 
from  the  height  of  land  of  the  interior  valleys.  So  fear- 
f1*!  was  the  road,  that,  on  one  stretch  of  seven  miles,  they 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     471 

passed  ten  broken-down  automobiles.  Billy  would  not 
force  the  mares  and  promptly  camped  beside  a  brawling 
stream  from  which  he  whipped  two  trout  at  a  time.  Here, 
Saxon  caught  her  first  big  trout.  She  had  been  accustomed 
to  landing  them  up  to  nine  and  ten  inches,  and  the  screech 
of  the  reel  when  the  big  one  was  hooked  caused  her  to  cry 
out  in  startled  surprise.  Billy  came  up  the  riffle  to  her 
and  gave  counsel.  Several  minutes  later,  cheeks  flushed 
and  eyes  dancing  with  excitement,  Saxon  dragged  the  big 
fellow  carefully  from  the  water's  edge  into  the  dry  sand. 
Here  it  threw  the  hook  out  and  flopped  tremendously  until 
she  fell  upon  it  and  captured  it  in  her  hands. 

"Sixteen  inches,"  Billy  said,  as  she  held  it  up  proudly 

for  inspection.  " Hey! — what  are  you  goin'  to 

do?" 

"Wash  off  the  sand,  of  course,"  was  her  answer. 

"Better  put  it  in  the  basket,"  he  advised,  then  closed 
his  mouth  and  grimly  watched. 

She  stooped  by  the  side  of  the  stream  and  dipped  in 
the  splendid  fish.  It  flopped,  there  was  a  convulsive  move- 
ment on  her  part,  and  it  was  gone. 

"Oh!"  Saxon  cried  in  chagrin. 

"Them  that  finds  should  hold,"  quoth  Billy. 

"I  don't  care,"  she  replied.  "It  was  a  bigger  one  than 
you  ever  caught  anyway." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  denyin'  you're  a  peach  at  fishin',"  he 
drawled.  "You  caught  me,  didn't  you?" 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  she  retorted.  "Maybe  it 
was  like  the  man  who  was  arrested  for  catching  trout  out 
of  season.  His  defense  was  self  defense." 

Billy  pondered,  but  did  not  see. 

"The  trout  attacked  him,"  she  explained. 

Billy  grinned.     Fifteen  minutes  later  he  said: 

"You  sure  handed  me  a  hot  one." 

The  sky  was  overcast,  and,  as  they  drove  along  the  bank 

of  the  Coquille  River,  the  fog  suddenly  enveloped  them. 

"Whoof !"  Billy  exhaled  joyfully.    "Ain't  it  great!    I 


472  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

can  feel  myself  moppin'  it  up  like  a  dry  sponge.  I  never 
appreciated  fog  before." 

Saxon  held  out  her  arms  to  receive  it,  making  motions 
as  if  she  were  bathing  in  the  gray  mist. 

"I  never  thought  I'd  grow  tired  of  the  sun,"  she  said; 
"but  we've  had  more  than  our  share  the  last  few  weeks." 

"Ever  since  we  hit  the  Sacramento  Valley,"  Billy  af- 
firmed. "Too  much  sun  ain't  good.  I've  worked  that 
out.  Sunshine  is  like  liquor.  Did  you  ever  notice  how 
good  you  felt  when  the  sun  come  out  after  a  week  of  cloudy 
weather?  Well,  that  sunshine  was  just  like  a  jolt  of  whis- 
key. Had  the  same  effect.  Made  you  feel  good  all  over. 
Now,  when  you're  swimmin',  an'  come  out  an'  lay  in  the 
sun,  how  good  you  feel.  That's  because  you're  lappin' 
up  a  sun-cocktail.  But  suppose  you  lay  there  in  the  sand 
a  couple  of  hours.  You  don't  feel  so  good.  You're  so 
slow-movin'  it  takes  you  a  long  time  to  dress.  You  go 
home  draggin'  your  legs  an'  feelin'  rotten,  with  all  the 
life  sapped  outa  you.  What's  that?  It's  the  katzenjam- 
mer.  You've  ben  soused  to  the  ears  in  sunshine,  like  so 
much  whiskey,  an'  now  you're  payin'  for  it.  That's 
straight.  That's  why  fog  in  the  climate  is  best." 

"Then  we've  been  drunk  for  months,"  Saxon  said. 
"And  now  we're  going  to  sober  up." 

"You  bet.  Why,  Saxon,  I  can  do  two  days'  work  in 

one  in  this  climate.  Look  at  the  mares.  Blame  me 

if  they  ain't  perkin'  up  a 'ready." 

Vainly  Saxon's  eye  roved  the  pine  forest  in  search  of 
her  beloved  redwoods.  They  would  find  them  down  in 
California,  they  were  told  in  the  town  of  Bandon. 

"Then  we're  too  far  north,"  said  Saxon.  "We  must 
go  south  to  find  our  valley  of  the  moon." 

And  south  they  went,  along  roads  that  steadily  grew 
worse,  through  the  dairy  country  of  Langlois  and  through 
thick  pine  forests  to  Port  Orford.  where  Saxon  picked 
jeweled  agates  on  the  beach  while  Billy  caught  enormous 
rockcod.  No  railroads  had  yet  penetrated  this  wild  region, 
and  the  way  south  grew  wilder  and  wilder.  At  Gold 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      473 

Beach  they  encountered  their  old  friend,  the  Rogue  River, 
which  they  ferried  across  where  it  entered  the  Pacific. 
Still  wilder  became  the  country,  still  more  terrible  the 
road,  still  farther  apart  the  isolated  farms  and  clearings. 

And  here  were  neither  Asiatics  nor  Europeans.  The 
scant  population  consisted  of  the  original  settlers  and  their 
descendants.  More  than  one  old  man  or  woman  Saxon 
talked  with,  who  could  remember  the  trip  across  the 
Plains  with  the  plodding  oxen.  West  they  had  fared  until 
the  Pacific  itself  had  stopped  them,  and  here  they  had 
made  their  clearings,  built  their  rude  houses,  and  settled. 
In  them  Farthest  West  had  been  reached.  Old  customs 
had  changed  little.  There  were  no  railways.  No  automo- 
bile as  yet  had  ventured  their  perilous  roads.  Eastward, 
between  them  and  the  populous  interior  valleys,  lay  the 
wilderness  of  the  Coast  Range — a  game  paradise,  Billy 
heard;  though  he  declared  that  the  very  road  he  traveled 
was  game  paradise  enough  for  bin.  Had  he  not  halted 
the  horses,  turned  the  reins  over  to  Saxon,  and  shot  an 
eight-pronged  buck  from  the  wagon-seat? 

South  of  Gold  Beach,  climbing  a  narrow  road  through 
the  virgin  forest,  they  heard  from  far  above  the  jingle  of 
bells.  A  hundred  yards  farther  on  Billy  found  a  place 
wide  enough  to  turn  out.  Here  he  waited,  while  the 
merry  bells,  descending  the  mountain,  rapidly  came  near. 
They  heard  the  grind  of  brakes,  the  soft  thud  of  horses' 
hoofs,  once  a  sharp  cry  of  the  driver,  and  once  a  woman's 
laughter. 

"Some  driver,  some  driver,"  Billy  muttered.  "I  take 
my  hat  off  to  'm  whoever  he  is,  hittin'  a  pace  like  that 
on  a  road  like  this.  Listen  to  that!  He's  got  pow- 
erful brakes.  Zooie!  That  was  a  chuck-hole!  Some 

springs,  Saxon,  some  springs!" 

Where  the  road  zigzagged  above,  they  glimpsed  through 
the  trees  four  sorrel  horses  trotting  swiftly,  and  the  fly- 
ing wheels  of  a  small,  tan-painted  trap. 

At  the  bend  of  the  road  the  leaders  appeared  again, 
swinging  wide  on  the  curve,  the  wheelers  flashed  into  view, 


474  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

and  the  light  two-seated  rig ;  then  the  whole  affair  straigkt- 
ened  «ut  and  thundered  down  upon  them  across  a  narrow 
plank-bridge.  In  the  front  seat  were  a  man  and  woman; 
in  the  rear  seat  a  Japanese  was  squeezed  in  among  suit 
cases,  rods,  guns,  saddles,  and  a  typewriter  case,  while 
above  him  and  all  about  him,  fastened  most  intricately, 
sprouted  a  prodigious  crop  of  deer-  and  elk-horns. 

"It's  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hastings,"  Saxon  cried. 

"Whoa!"  Hastings  yelled,  putting  on  the  brake  and 
gathering  his  horses  in  to  a  stop  alongside.  Greetings 
flew  back  and  forth,  in  which  the  Japanese,  whom  they 
had  last  seen  on  the  Roamer  at  Rio  Vista,  gave  and  re- 
ceived his  share. 

"Different  from  the  Sacramento  islands,  eh?"  Hastings 
said  to  Saxon.  "Nothing  but  old  American  stock  in  these 
mountains.  And  they  haven 't  changed  any.  As  John  Fox, 
Jr.,  said,  they're  our  contemporary  ancestors.  Our  old 
folks  were  just  like  them." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hastings,  between  them,  told  of  their 
long  drive.  They  were  out  two  months  then,  and  intended 
to  continue  north  through  Oregon  and  Washington  to  the 
Canadian  boundary. 

"Then  we'll  ship  our  horses  and  come  home  by  train," 
concluded  Hastings. 

"But  the  way  you  drive  you  oughta  be  a  whole  lot 
further  along  than  this,"  Billy  criticized. 

"But  we  keep  stopping  off  everywhere,"  Mrs.  Hastings 
explained. 

"We  went  in  to  the  Hoopa  Reservation,"  said  Mr. 
Hastings,  "and  canoed  down  the  Trinity  and  Klamath 
Rivers  to  the  ocean.  And  just  now  we've  come  out  from 
two  weeks  in  the  real  wilds  of  Curry  County." 

"You  must  go  in,"  Hastings  advised.  "You'll  get  to 
Mountain  Ranch  to-night.  And  you  can  turn  in  from 
there.  No  roads,  though.  You  '11  have  to  pack  your  horses. 
But  it's  full  of  game.  I  shot  five  mountain  lions  and  two 
bear,  to  say  nothing  of  deer.  And  there  are  small  herds 
of  elk,  too.  No;  I  didn't  shoot  any.  They're  pro- 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     475 

tected.  These  horns  I  got  from  the  old  hunters.  I'll  tell 
you  all  about  it." 

And  while  the  men  talked,  Saxon  and  Mrs.  Hastings  were 
not  idle. 

"Found  your  valley  of  the  moon  yet?"  the  writer's  wife 
asked,  as  they  were  saying  good-by. 

Saxon  shook  her  head. 

"You  will  find  it  if  yua  go  far  enough;  and  be  sure 
you  go  as  far  as  Sonoma  Valley  and  our  ranch.  Then, 
if  you  haven't  found  it  yet,  we'll  see  what  we  can  do." 

Three  weeks  later,  with  a  bigger  record  of  mountain  lions 
and  bear  than  Hastings'  to  his  credit,  Billy  emerged  from 
Curry  County  and  drove  across  the  line  into  California. 
At  once  Saxon  found  herself  among  the  redwoods.  But 
they  were  redwoods  unbelievable.  Billy  stopped  the 
wagon,  got  out,  and  paced  around  one. 

"Forty-five  feet,"  he  announced.  "That's  fifteen  in 

diameter,  And  they're  all  like  it  only  bigger.  No; 

there's  a  runt.  It's  only  about  nine  feet  through.  An' 
they're  hundreds  of  feet  tall." 

"When  I  die,  Billy,  you  must  bury  me  in  a  redwood 
grove,"  Saxon  adjured. 

"I  ain't  goin'  to  let  you  die  before  I  do,"  he  assured 
her.  "An*  then  we'll  leave  it  in  our  wills  for  us  both  tc 
be  buried  that  way." 


CHAPTER  XVH 

SOUTH  they  held  along  the  coast,  hunting,  fishing,  swim- 
ming, and  horse-buying.  Billy  shipped  his  purchases  on 
the  coasting  steamers.  Through  Del  Norte  and  Humboldt 
counties  they  went,  and  through  Mendoeino  into  Sonoma 
— counties  larger  than  Eastern  states — threading  the  giant 
woods,  whipping  innumerable  trout-streams,  and  crossing 
countless  rich  valleys.  Ever  Saxon  sought  the  valley  of 
the  moon.  Sometimes,  when  all  seemed  fair,  the  lack  was 
a  railroad,  sometimes  madrono  and  manzanita  trees,  and. 
usually,  there  was  too  much  fog. 

"We  do  want  a  sun-cocktail  once  in  a  while,"  she  told 
Billy. 

"Yep,"  was  his  answer.  "Too  much  fog  might  make 
us  soggy.  What  we're  after  is  betwixt  an'  between,  an' 
we'll  have  to  get  back  from  the  coast  a  ways  to  find  it." 

This  was  in  the  fall  of  the  year,  and  they  turned  their 
backs  on  the  Pacific  at  old  Fort  Ross  and  entered  the 
Russian  River  Valley,  far  below  Ukiah,  by  way  of  Caza- 
dero  and  Guerneville.  At  Santa  Rosa  Billy  was  delayed 
with  the  shipping  of  several  horses,  so  that  it  was  not 
until  afternoon  that  he  drove  south  and  east  for  Sonoma 
Valley. 

"I  guess  we'll  no  more  than  make  Sonoma  Valley  wh en- 
it '11  be  time  to  camp,"  he  said,  measuring  the  sun  with  his| 
eye.  "This  is  called  Bennett  Valley.  You  cross  a  divide- 
from  it  and  come  out  at  Glen  Ellen.  Now  this  is  a  mighty 
pretty  valley,  if  anybody  should  ask  you.  An'  that's  some 
nifty  mountain  over  there. ' ' 

"The  mountain  is  all  right,"  Saxon  adjudged.  "But  all 
the  rest  of  the  hills  are  too  bare.  And  I  don't  see  any 
big  trees.  It  takes  rich  soil  to  make  big  trees." 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      477 

' '  Oh,  I  ain  't  sayin '  it 's  the  valley  of  the  moon  by  a  long 
ways.  All  the  same,  Saxon,  that's  some  mountain.  Look 
at  the  timber  on  it.  I  bet  they's  deer  there." 

"I  wonder  where  we'll  spend  this  winter,"  Saxon  re- 
marked. 

"D'ye  know,  I've  just  ben  thinkin'  the  same  thing. 
Let's  winter  at  Carmel.  Mark  Hall's  back,  an'  so  is  Jim 
Hazard.  What  d'ye  say?" 

Saxon  nodded. 

"Only  you  won't  be  the  odd-job  man  this  time." 

"Nope.  We  can  make  trips  in  good  weather  horse- 
buyin',"  Billy  confirmed,  his  face  beaming  with  self-sat- 
isfaction. "An'  if  that  walkin'  poet  of  the  Marble  House 
is  around,  I'll  sure  get  the  gloves  on  with  'm  just  in  mem- 
ory of  the  time  he  walked  me  off  my  legs " 

"Oh!  Oh!"  Saxon  cried.     "Look,  Billy!  Look!" 

Around  a  bend  in  the  road  came  a  man  in  a  sulky,  driv- 
ing a  heavy  stallion.  The  animal  was  a  bright  chestnut- 
sorrel,  with  cream-colored  mane  and  tail.  The  tail  almost 
swept  the  ground,  while  the  mane  was  so  thick  that  it 
crested  out  of  the  neck  and  flowed  down,  long  and  wavy. 
He  scented  the  mares  and  stopped  short,  head  flung  up 
and  armfuls  of  creamy  mane  tossing  in  the  breeze.  He 
bent  his  head  until  flaring  nostrils  brushed  impatient 
knees,  and  between  the  fine-pointed  ears  could  be  seen  a 
mighty  and  incredible  curve  of  neck.  Again  he  tossed 
his  head,  fretting  against  the  bit  as  the  driver  turned 
widely  aside  for  safety  in  passing.  They  could  see  the 
blue  glaze  like  a  sheen  on  the  surface  of  the  horse 's  bright, 
wild  eyes,  and  Billy  closed  a  wary  thumb  on  his  reins 
and  himself  turned  widely.  He  held  up  his  hand  in  signal, 
and  the  driver  of  the  stallion  stopped  when  well  past,  and 
over  his  shoulder  talked  draught-horses  with  Billy. 

Among  other  things,  Billy  learned  that  the  stallion's 
name  was  Barbarossa,  that  the  driver  was  the  owner,  and 
that  Santa  Rosa  was  his  headquarters. 

' '  There  are  two  ways  to  Sonoma  Valley  from  here, ' '  the 
man  directed.  "When  you  come  to  the  crossroads  the  turn 


478  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

to  the  left  will  take  you  to  Glen  Ellen  by  Bennett  Peak — 
that's  it  there." 

Kising  from  rolling  stubble  fields,  Bennett  Peak  towered 
hot  in  the  sun,  a  row  of  bastion  hills  leaning  against  its 
base.  But  hills  and  mountains  on  that  side  showed  bare 
and  heated,  though  beautiful  with  the  sunburnt  tawniness 
of  California. 

"The  turn  to  the  right  will  take  you  to  Glen  Ellen, 
too,  only  it's  longer  and  steeper  grades.  But  your  mares 
don't  look  as  though  it'd  bother  them." 

"Which  is  the  prettiest  way?"  Saxon  asked. 

' '  Oh,  the  right  hand  road,  by  all  means, ' '  said  the  man. 
"That's  Sonoma  Mountain  there,  and  the  road  skirts  it 
pretty  well  up,  and  goes  through  Cooper's  Grove." 

Billy  did  not  start  immediately  after  they  had  said 
good-by,  and  he  and  Saxon,  heads  over  shoulders,  watched 
the  roused  Barbarossa  plunging  mutinously  on  toward 
Santa  Rosa. 

"Gee!"  Billy  said.  "I'd  like  to  be  up  here  next 
spring. ' ' 

At  the  crossroads  Billy  hesitated  and  looked  at  Saxon. 

"What  if  it  is  longer?"  she  said.  "Look  how  beautiful 
it  is — all  covered  with  green  woods ;  and  I  just  know  those 
are  redwoods  in  the  canyons.  You  never  can  tell.  The 
valley  of  the  moon  might  be  right  up  there  somewhere.  . 
And  it  would  never  do  to  miss  it  just  in  order  to  save 
half  an  hour." 

They  took  the  turn  to  the  right  and  began  crossing  a 
series  of  steep  foothills.  As  they  approached  the  moun- 
tain there  were  signs  of  a  greater  abundance  of  water. 
They  drove  beside  a  running  stream,  and,  though  the  vine- 
yards on  the  hills  were  summer-dry,  the  farmhouses  in 
the  hollows  and  on  the  levels  were  grouped  about  with 
splendid  trees. 

"Maybe  it  sounds  funny,"  Saxon  observed;  "but  I'm 
beginning  to  love  that  mountain  already.  It  almost  seems 
as  if  I'd  seen  it  before,  somehow,  it's  so  all-around  satisfy- 
ing—oh!" 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     479 

Crossing  a  bridge  and  rounding  a  sharp  turn,  they  were 
suddenly  enveloped  in  a  mysterious  coolness  and  gloom. 
All  about  them  arose  stately  trunks  of  redwood.  The  for- 
est floor  was  a  rosy  carpet  of  autumn  fronds.  Occasional 
shafts  of  sunlight,  penetrating  the  deep  shade,  warmed  the 
somberness  of  the  grove.  Alluring  paths  led  off  among  the 
trees  and  into  cozy  nooks  made  by  circles  of  red  columns 
growing  around  the  dust  of  vanished  ancestors — witness- 
ing the  titanic  dimensions  of  those  ancestors  by  the  girth 
of  the  circles  in  which  they  stood. 

Out  of  the  grove  they  pulled  to  the  steep  divide,  which 
was  no  more  than  a  buttress  of  Sonoma  Mountain.  The 
way  led  on  through  rolling  uplands  and  across  small  dips 
and  canyons,  all  well  wooded  and  a-drip  with  water.  In 
places  the  road  was  muddy  from  wayside  springs. 

"The  mountain's  a  sponge,"  said  Billy.  "Here  it  is, 
the  tail-end  of  dry  summer,  an'  the  ground's  just  leakin' 
everywhere. ' ' 

' '  I  know  I  've  never  been  here  before, ' '  Saxon  communed 
aloud.  "But  it's  all  so  familiar!  So  I  must  have  dreamed 

it.     And  there's  madronos! — a   whole   grove!     And 

manzanita!  Why,  I  feel  just  as  if  I  was  coming  home. 
.  .  .  Oh,  Billy,  if  it  should  turn  out  to  be  our  val- 
ley." 

' '  Plastered  against  the  side  of  a  mountain  ? "  he  queried, 
with  a  skeptical  laugh. 

"No;  I  don't  mean  that.  I  mean  on  the  way  to  our 
valley.  Because  the  way — all  ways — to  our  valley  must 
be  beautiful.  And  this;  I've  seen  it  all  before,  dreamed 
it." 

"It's  great,"  he  said  sympathetically.  "I  wouldn't 
trade  a  square  mile  of  this  kind  of  country  for  the  whole 
Sacramento  Valley,  with  the  river  islands  thrown  in  and 
Middle  River  for  good  measure.  If  they  ain't  deer  up 
there,  I  miss  my  guess.  An'  where  they's  springs  they's 
streams,  an'  streams  means  trout." 

They  passed  a  large  and  comfortable  farmhouse,  sur- 
rounded by  wandering  barns  and  cow-sheds,  went  on  under 


480  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

forest  arches,  and  emerged  beside  a  field  with  which  Saxon 
was  instantly  enchanted.  It  flowed  in  a  gentle  concave 
from  the  road  up  the  mountain,  its  farther  boundary  an 
unbroken  line  of  timber.  The  field  glowed  like  rough 
gold  in  the  approaching  sunset,  and  near  the  middle  of  it 
stood  a  solitary  great  redwood,  with  blasted  top  suggesting 
a  nesting  eyrie  for  eagles.  The  timber  beyond  clothed  the 
mountain  in  solid  green  to  what  they  took  to  be  the  top. 
But,  as  they  drove  on,  Saxon,  looking  back  upon  what  she 
called  her  field,  saw  the  real  summit  of  Sonoma  towering 
beyond,  the  mountain  behind  her  field  a  mere  spur  upon 
the  side  of  the  larger  mass. 

Ahead  and  toward  the  right,  across  sheer  ridges  of  the 
mountains,  separated  by  deep  green  canyons  and  broaden- 
ing lower  down  into  rolling  orchards  and  vineyards,  they 
caught  their  first  sight  of  Sonoma  Valley  and  the  wild 
mountains  that  rimmed  its  eastern  side.  To  the  left  they 
gazed  across  a  golden  land  of  small  hills  and  valleys.  Be- 
yond, to  the  north,  they  glimpsed  another  portion  of  the 
valley,  and,  still  beyond,  the  opposing  wall  of  the  valley — 
a  range  of  mountains,  the  highest  of  which  reared  its  red 
and  battered  ancient  crater  against  a  rosy  and  mellowing 
sky.  From  north  to  southeast,  the  mountain  rim  curved 
in  the  brightness  of  the  sun,  while  Saxon  and  Billy  were 
already  in  the  shadow  of  evening.  He  looked  at  Saxon, 
noted  the  ravished  ecstasy  of  her  face,  and  stopped  the 
horses.  All  the  eastern  sky  was  blushing  to  rose,  which 
descended  upon  the  mountains,  touching  them  with  wine 
and  ruby.  Sonoma  Valley  began  to  fill  with  a  purple  flood, 
laving  the  mountain  bases,  rising,  inundating,  drowning 
them  in  its  purple.  Saxon  pointed  in  silence,  indicating 
that  the  purple  flood  was  the  sunset  shadow  of  Sonoma 
Mountain.  Billy  nodded,  then  chirruped  to  the  mares, 
and  the  descent  began  through  a  warm  and  colorful  twi- 
light. 

On  the  elevated  sections  of  the  road  they  felt  the  cool, 
delicious  breeze  from  the  Pacific  forty  miles  away ;  while 
from  each  little  dip  and  hollow  came  warm  breaths  of 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      481 

autumn  earth,  spicy  with  sunburnt  grass  and  fallen  leaves 
and  passing  flowers. 

They  came  to  the  rim  of  a  deep  canyon  that  seemed  to 
penetrate  to  the  heart  of  Sonoma  Mountain.  Again,  with 
no  word  spoken,  merely  from  watching  Saxon,  Billy 
stopped  the  wagon.  The  canyon  was  wildly  beautiful. 
Tall  redwoods  lined  its  entire  length.  On  its  farther  rim 
stood  three  rugged  knolls  covered  with  dense  woods  of 
spruce  and  oak.  From  between  the  knolls,  a  feeder  to  the 
main  canyon  and  likewise  fringed  with  redwoods,  emerged 
a  smaller  canyon.  Billy  pointed  to  a  stubble  field  that 
lay  at  the  feet  of  the  knolls. 

"  It 's  in  fields  like  that  I  've  seen  my  mares  a-pasturing, ' ' 
he  said. 

They  dropped  down  into  the  canyon,  the  road  follow- 
ing a  stream  that  sang  under  maples  and  alders.  The 
sunset  fires,  refracted  from  the  cloud-driftage  of  the  au- 
tumn sky,  bathed  the  canyon  with  crimson,  in  which  ruddy- 
limbed  madronos  and  wine-wooded  manzanitas  burned  and 
smoldered.  The  air  was  aromatic  with  laurel.  Wild  grape 
vines  bridged  the  stream  from  tree  to  tree.  Oaks  of  many 
sorts  were  veiled  in  lacy  Spanish  moss.  Ferns  and  brakes 
grew  lush  beside  the  stream.  From  somewhere  came  the 
plaint  of  a  mourning  dove.  Fifty  feet  above  the  ground, 
almost  over  their  heads,  a  Douglas  squirrel  crossed  the 
road — a  flash  of  gray  between  two  trees;  and  they  marked 
the  continuance  of  its  aerial  passage  by  the  bending  of  the 
boughs. 

''I've  got  a  hunch,"  said  Billy. 

"Let  me  say  it  first,"  Saxon  begged. 

He  waited,  his  eyes  on  her  face  as  she  gazed  about  hei 
in  rapture. 

"We've  found  our  valley,"  she  whispered.  "Was  that 
it?" 

He  nodded,  but  checked  speech  at  sight  of  a  small  boy 
driving  a  cow  up  the  road,  a  preposterously  big  shotgun 
in  one  hand,  in  the  other  as  preposterously  big  a  jack- 
rabbit. 


482  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

"How  far  to  Glen  Ellen?"  Billy  asked. 

"Mile  an'  a  half,"  was  the  answer. 

"What  creek  is  this?"  inquired  Saxon. 

"Wild  Water.  It  empties  into  Sonoma  Creek  half  a 
mile  down." 

"Trout?"— this  from  Billy. 

"If  you  know  how  to  catch   'em,"  grinned  the  boy. 

"Deer  up  the  mountain?" 

"It  ain't  open  season,"  the  boy  evaded. 

1 '  I  guess  you  never  shot  a  deer, ' '  Billy  slyly  baited,  and 
was  rewarded  with: 

"I  got  the  horns  to  show." 

"Deer  shed  their  horns,"  Billy  teased  on.  "Anybody 
can  find  'em." 

"I  got  the  meat  on  mine.    It  ain't  dry  yet " 

The  boy  broke  off,  gazing  with  shocked  eyes  into  the  pit 
Billy  had  dug  for  him. 

"It's  all  right,  sonny,"  Billy  laughed,  as  he  drove  on. 
"I  ain't  the  game  warden.  I'm  buyin'  horses." 

More  leaping  tree  squirrels,  more  ruddy  madronos  and 
majestic  oaks,  more  fairy  circles  of  redwoods,  and,  still 
beside  the  singing  stream,  they  passed  a  gate  by  the 
roadside.  Before  it  stood  a  rural  mail  box,  on  which  was 
lettered  ' '  Edmund  Hale. ' '  Standing  under  the  rustic  arch, 
leaning  upon  the  gate,  a  man  and  woman  composed  a  pic- 
ture so  arresting  and  beautiful  that  Saxon  caught  her 
breath.  They  were  side  by  side,  the  delicate  hand  of  the 
woman  curled  in  the  hand  of  the  man,  which  looked  as  if 
made  to  confer  benedictions.  His  face  bore  out  this  im- 
pression— a  beautiful-browed  countenance,  with  large,  be- 
nevolent gray  eyes  under  a  wealth  of  white  hair  that  shone 
like  spun  glass.  He  was  fair  and  large ;  the  little  woman 
beside  him  was  daintily  wrought.  She  was  saffron-brown, 
as  a  woman  of  the  white  race  can  well  be,  with  smiling 
eyes  of  bluest  blue.  In  quaint  sage-green  draperies,  she 
seemed  a  flower,  with  her  small  vivid  face  irresistibly  re- 
minding Saxon  of  a  springtime  wake-robin. 

Perhaps  the   picture   made   by   Saxon   and   Billy   was 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     483 

equally  arresting  and  beautiful,  as  they  drove  down 
through  the  golden  end  of  day.  The  two  couples  had  eyes 
only  for  each  other.  The  little  woman  beamed  joyously. 
The  man's  face  glowed  into  the  benediction  that  had 
trembled  there.  To  Saxon,  like  the  field  up  the  mountain, 
like  the  mountain  itself,  it  seemed  that  she  had  always 
known  this  adorable  pair.  She  knew  that  she  loved  them. 

"How  d'ye  do,"  said  Billy. 

"You  blessed  children,"  said  the  man.  "I  wonder  if 
yon  know  how  dear  you  look  sitting  there." 

That  was  all.  The  wagon  had  passed  by,  rustling  down 
the  road,  which  was  carpeted  with  fallen  leaves  of  maple, 
oak,  and  alder.  Then  they  came  to  the  meeting  of  the 
two  creeks. 

"Oh,  what  a  place  for  a  home,"  Saxon  cried,  pointing 
across  "Wild  "Water.  "See,  Billy,  on  that  bench  there 
above  the  meadow." 

"It's  a  rich  bottom,  Saxon;  and  so  is  the  bench  rich. 
Look  at  the  big  trees  on  it.  An'  they's  sure  to  be  springs." 

"Drive  over,"  she  said. 

Forsaking  the  main  road,  they  crossed  Wild  Water  on 
a  narrow  bridge  and  continued  along  an  ancient,  rutted 
road  that  ran  beside  an  equally  ancient  worm-fence  of 
split  redwood  rails.  They  came  to  a  gate,  open  and  off 
its  hinges,  through  which  the  road  led  out  on  the  bench. 

"This  is  it — I  know  it,"  Saxon  said  with  conviction. 
"Drive  in,  Billy." 

A  small,  whitewashed  farmhouse  with  broken  windows . 
showed  through  the  trees. 

"Talk  about  your  madronos " 

Billy  pointed  to  the  father  of  all  madronos,  six  feet  in 
diameter  at  its  base,  sturdy  and  sound,  which  stood  be- 
fore the  house. 

They  spoke  in  low  tones  as  they  passed  around  the 
house  under  great  oak  trees  and  came  to  a  stop  before 
a  small  barn.  They  did  not  wait  to  unharness.  Tying 
the  horses,  they  started  to  explore.  The  pitch  from  the 
bench  to  the  meadow  was  steep  yet  thickly  wooded  witb 


484  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

oaks  and  manzanita.  As  they  crashed  through  the  under* 
brush  they  startled  a  score  of  quail  into  flight. 

"How  about  game?"  Saxon  queried. 

Billy  grinned,  and  fell  to  examining  a  spring  which 
bubbled  a  clear  stream  into  the  meadow.  Here  the  ground 
was  sunbaked  and  wide  open  in  a  multitude  of  cracks. 

Disappointment  leaped  into  Saxon's  face,  but  Billy, 
crumbling  a  clod  between  his  fingers,  had  not  made  up 
his  mind. 

"It's  rich,"  he  pronounced;  " — the  cream  of  the  soil 
that's  ben  washin'  down  from  the  hills  for  ten  thousan' 
years.  But " 

He  broke  off,  stared  all  about,  studying  the  configura- 
tion of  the  meadow,  crossed  it  to  the  redwood  trees  be- 
yond, then  came  back. 

"It's  no  good  as  it  is,"  he  said.  "But  it's  the  best  ever 
if  it's  handled  right.  All  it  needs  is  a  little  common  sense 
an'  a  lot  of  drainage.  This  meadow's  a  natural  basin  not 
yet  filled  level.  They's  a  sharp  slope  through  the  red- 
woods to  the  creek.  Come  on,  I'll  show  you." 

They  went  through  the  redwoods  and  came  out  on  So^ 
noma  Creek.  At  this  spot  was  no  singing.  The  stream 
poured  into  a  quiet  pool.  The  willows  on  their  side 
brushed  the  water.  The  opposite  side  was  a  steep  bank. 
Billy  measured  the  height  of  the  bank  with  his  eye,  the 
depth  of  the  water  with  a  driftwood  pole. 

"Fifteen  feet,"  he  announced.  "That  allows  all  kinds 
of  high-divin'  from  the  bank.  An'  it's  a  hundred  yards 
of  a  swim  up  an'  down." 

They  followed  down  the  pool.  It  emptied  in  a  rime, 
across  exposed  bedrock,  into  another  pool.  As  they  looked, 
a  trout  flashed  into  the  air  and  back,  leaving  a  widening 
ripple  on  the  quiet  surface. 

"I  guess  we  won't  winter  in  Carmel,"  Billy  said.  "This 
place  was  specially  manufactured  for  us.  In  the  morning 
I'll  find  out  who  owns  it." 

Half  an  hour  later,  feeding  the  horses,  he  called  Saxon's 
attention  to  a  locomotive  whistle. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     485 

"You've  got  ymvr  railroad,"  he  said.  "That's  a  train 
pulling  into  Glen  Ellen,  an'  it's  only  a  mile  from  here." 

Saxon  was  dozing  off  to  sleep  under  the  blankets  wheit 
Billy  aroused  her. 

"Suppose  the  guy  that  owns  it  won't  sell?" 

"There  isn't  the  slightest  doubt,"  Saxon  answered  with 
Unruffled  certainty.  "This  is  our  place.  I  know  it." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THEY  were  awakened  by  Possum,  who  was  indignantly 
reproaching  a  tree  squirrel  for  not  coming  down  to  be 
killed.  The  squirrel  chattered  garrulous  remarks  that 
drove  Possum  into  a  mad  attempt  to  climb  the  tree.  Billy 
and  Saxon  giggled  and  hugged  each  other  at  the  terrier's 
frenzy. 

"If  this  is  goin'  to  be  our  place,  they'll  be  no  shootin' 
of  tree  squirrels,"  Billy  said. 

Saxon  pressed  his  hand  and  sat  up.  From  beneath  the 
bench  came  the  cry  of  a  meadow  lark. 

"There  isn't  anything  left  to  be  desired,"  she  sighed 
happily. 

"Except  the  deed,"  Billy  corrected. 

After  a  hasty  breakfast,  they  started  to  explore,  run- 
ning the  irregular  boundaries  of  the  place  and  repeatedly 
crossing  it  from  rail  fence  to  creek  and  back  again.  Seven 
springs  they  found  along  the  foot  of  the  bench  on  the 
edge  of  the  meadow. 

"There's  your  water  supply,"  Billy  said.  "Drain  the 
meadow,  work  the  soil  up,  and  with  fertilizer  and  all 
that  water  you  can  grow  crops  the  year  round.  There 
must  be  five  acres  of  it,  an'  I  wouldn't  trade  it  for  Mrs. 
Mortimer's." 

They  were  standing  in  the  old  orchard,  on  the  bench, 
where  they  had  counted  twenty-seven  trees,  neglected,  but 
of  generous  girth. 

"And  on  top  the  bench,  back  of  the  house,  we  can  grow 
berries."  Saxon  paused,  considering  a  new  thought.  "If 

only  Mrs.  Mortimer  would  come  up  and  advise  us !  Do 

you  think  she  would,  Billy?" 

"Sure  she  would.    It  ain't  more'n  four  hours'  run  from 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      487 

San  Jose.  But  first  we'll  get  our  hooks  into  the  place. 
Then  you  can  write  to  her." 

Sonoma  Creek  gave  the  long  boundary  to  the  little  farm, 
two  sides  were  worm  fenced,  and  the  fourth  side  was  "Wild 
Water. 

"Why,  we'll  have  that  beautiful  man  and  woman  for 
neighbors,"  Saxon  recollected.  "Wild  Water  will  be  the 
dividing  line  between  their  place  and  ours." 

"It  ain't  ours  yet,"  Billy  commented.  "Let's  go  and 
call  on  'em.  They'll  be  able  to  tell  us  all  about  it." 

"It's  just  as  good  as,"  she  replied.  "The  big  thing 
has  been  the  finding.  And  whoever  owns  it  doesn't  care 
much  for  it.  It  hasn't  been  lived  in  for  a  long  time.  And 
—Oh,  Billy— are  you  satisfied?" 

"With  every  bit  of  it,"  he  answered  frankly,  "as  far 
as  it  goes.  But  the  trouble  is,  it  don't  go  far  enough." 

The  disappointment  in  her  face  spurred  him  to  renun- 
ciation of  his  particular  dream. 

"We'll  buy  it— that's  settled,"  he  said.  "But  outside 
the  meadow,  they's  so  much  wdods  that  they's  little  pas- 
ture— not  more'n  enough  for  a  couple  of  horses  an'  a 
cow.  But  I  don't  care.  We  can't  have  everything,  an' 
what  they  is  is  almighty  good." 

"Let  us  call  it  a  starter,"  she  consoled.  "Later  on  we 
can  add  to  it — maybe  the  land  alongside  that  runs  up  the 
Wild  Water  to  the  three  knolls  we  saw  yesterday " 

"Where  I  seen  my  horses  pasturin',"  he  remembered, 
with  a  flash  of  eye.  "Why  not?  So  much  has  come  true- 
since  we  hit  the  road,  maybe  that'll  come  true,  too." 

"We'll  work  for  it,  Billy." 

"We'll  work  like  hell  for  it,"  he  said  grimly. 

They  passed  through  the  rustic  gate  and  along  a  path 
that  wound  through  wild  woods.  There  was  no  sign  of 
the  house  until  they  came  abruptly  upon  it,  bowered 
among  the  trees.  It  was  eight-sided,  and  so  justly  propor- 
tioned that  its  two  stories  made  no  show  of  height.  The 
house  belonged  there.  It  might  have  sprung  from  the 


488  THE    VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

soil  just  as  the  trees  had.  There  were  no  formal  grounds. 
The  wild  grew  to  the  doors.  The  low  porch  of  the  main 
entrance  was  raised  only  a  step  from  the  ground. 
"Trillium  Covert,"  they  read,  in  quaint  carved  letters 
under  the  eave  of  the  porch. 

"Come  right  upstairs,  you  dears,"  a  voice  called  from 
above,  in  response  to  Saxon's  knock. 

Stepping  back  and  looking  up,  she  beheld  the  little  lady 
smiling  down  from  a  sleeping-porch.  Clad  in  a  rosy-tis- 
sued and  flowing  house  gown,  she  again  reminded  Saxon  of 
a  flower. 

"Just  push  the  front  door  open  and  find  your  way," 
was  the  direction. 

Saxon  led,  with  Billy  at  her  heels.  They  came  into 
a  room  bright  with  windows,  where  a  big  log  smoldered 
in  a  rough-stone  fireplace.  On  the  stone  slab  above  stood 
a  huge  Mexican  jar,  filled  with  autumn  branches  and  trail- 
ing fluffy  smoke-vine.  The  walls  were  finished  in  warm 
natural  woods,  stained  but  without  polish.  The  air  was 
aromatic  with  clean  wood  odors.  A  walnut  organ  loomed 
in  a  shallow  corner  of  the  room.  All  corners  were  shallow 
in  this  octagonal  dwelling.  In  another  corner  were  many 
rows  of  books.  Through  the  windows,  across  a  low  couch 
indubitably  made  for  use,  could  be  seen  a  restful  picture 
of  autumn  trees  and  yellow  grasses,  threaded  by  well- 
worn  paths  that  ran  here  and  there  over  the  tiny  estate. 
A  delightful  little  stairway  wound  past  more  windows 
to  the  upper  story.  Here  the  little  lady  greeted  them  am 
led  them  into  what  Saxon  knew  at  once  was  her  room. 
The  two  octagonal  sides  of  the  house  which  showed  in  this 
wide  room  were  given  wholly  to  windows.  Under  the  long 
sill,  to  the  floor,  were  shelves  of  books.  Books  lay  here 
and  there,  in  the  disorder  of  use,  on  work  table,  couch, 
and  desk.  On  a  sill  by  an  open  window,  a  jar  of  autumn 
leaves  breathed  the  charm  of  the  sweet  brown  wife,  who 
seated  herself  in  a  tiny  rattan  chair,  enameled  a  cheery 
red,  such  as  children  delight  to  rock  in. 

"A  queer  house,"  Mrs.  Hale  laughed  girlishly  and  con- 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     489 

tantedly.  "But  we  love  it.  Edmund  made  it  with  his 
own  hands — even  to  the  plumbing,  though  he  did  have  a 
terrible  time  with  that  before  he  succeeded." 

"How  about  that  hardwood  floor  downstairs?    an' 

the  fireplace?"  Billy  inquired. 

"All,  all,"  she  replied  proudly.  "And  half  the  furni- 
ture. That  cedar  desk  there,  the  table— with  his  own 
hands. ' ' 

' '  They  are  such  gentle  hands, ' '  Saxon  was  moved  to  say. 

Mrs.  Hale  looked  at  her  quickly,  her  vivid  face  alive  with 
a  grateful  light. 

' '  They  are  gentle,  the  gentlest  hands  I  have  ever  known, ' ' 
she  said  softly.  "And  you  are  a  dear  to  have  noticed  it, 
for  you  only  saw  them  yesterday  in  passing." 

"I  couldn't  help  it,"  Saxon  said  simply. 

Her  gaze  slipped  past  Mrs.  Hale,  attracted  by  the  wall 
beyond,  which  was  done  in  a  bewitching  honeycomb  pat- 
tern dotted  with  golden  bees.  The  walls  were  hung  with 
a  few,  a  very  few,  framed  pictures. 

"They  are  all  of  people,"  Saxon  said,  remembering  the 
beautiful  paintings  in  Mark  Hall's  bungalow. 

"My  windows  frame  my  landscape  paintings,"  Mrs. 
Hale  answered,  pointing  out  of  doors.  "Inside  I  want 
only  the  faces  of  my  dear  ones  whom  I  cannot  have  with 
me  always.  Some  of  them  are  dreadful  rovers. ' ' 

"Oh!"  Saxon  was  on  her  feet  and  looking  at  a  pho- 
tograph. "You  know  Clara  Hastings!" 

';I  ought  to.  I  did  everything  but  nurse  her  at  my 
breast.  She  came  to  me  when  she  was  a  little  baby.  Her 
mother  was  my  sister.  Do  you  know  how  greatly  you 
resemble  her?  I  remarked  it  to  Edmund  yesterday.  He 
had  already  seen  it.  It  wasn't  a  bit  strange  that  his  heart 
leaped  out  to  you  two  as  you  came  driving  down  behind 
those  beautiful  horses." 

So  Mrs.  Hale  was  Clara's  aunt — old  stock  that  had 
crossed  the  Plains.  Saxon  knew  now  why  she  had  re- 
minded her  so  strongly  of  her  own  mother. 

The  talk  whipped  quite  away  from  Billy,  who  could 


490  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

only  admire  the  detailed  work  of  the  cedar  desk  while  h^ 
listened.  Saxon  told  of  meeting  Clara  and  Jack  Hastings 
on  their  yacht  and  on  their  driving  trip  in  Oregon.  They 
were  off  again,  Mrs.  Hale  said,  having  shipped  their  horses 
home  from  Vancouver  and  taken  the  Canadian  Pacific  on 
their  way  to  England.  Mrs.  Hale  knew  Saxon's  mother, 
or,  rather,  her  poems ;  and  produced,  not  only  ' '  The  Story 
of  the  Files,"  but  a  ponderous  scraphook  which  contained 
many  of  her  mother's  poems  which  Saxon  had  never  seen. 
A  sweet  singer,  Mrs.  Hale  said;  but  so  many  had  sung 
in  the  days  of  gold  and  been  forgotten.  There  had  been 
no  army  of  magazines  then,  and  the  poems  had  perished 
in  local  newspapers. 

Jack  Hastings  had  fallen  in  love  with  Clara,  the  talk 
ran  on ;  then,  visiting  at  Trillium  Covert,  he  had  fallen  in 
love  with  Sonoma  Valley  and  bought  a  magnificent  home 
ranch,  though  little  enough  he  saw  of  it,  being  away  over 
the  world  so  much  of  the  time.  Mrs.  Hale  talked  of  her 
own  journey  across  the  Plains,  a  little  girl,  in  the  late 
Fifties,  and,  like  Mrs.  Mortimer,  knew  all  about  the  fight 
at  Little  Meadow,  and  the  tale  of  the  massacre  of  the  emi- 
grant train  of  which  Billy's  father  had  been  the  sole 
survivor. 

"And  so,"  Saxon  concluded,  an  hour  later,  "we've  been 
three  years  searching  for  our  valley  of  the  moon,  and  now 
we've  found  it." 

"Valley  of  the  Moon?"  Mrs.  Hale  queried.  "Then  you 
knew  about  it  all  the  time.  What  kept  you  so  long?" 

"No;  we  didn't  know.  We  just  started  on  a  blind 
search  for  it.  Mark  Hall  called  it  a  pilgrimage,  and  was 
always  teasing  us  to  carry  long  staffs.  He  said  when 
we  found  the  spot  we  'd  know,  because  then  the  staffs  would 
burst  into  blossom.  He  laughed  at  all  the  good  things 
we  wanted  in  our  valley,  and  one  night  he  took  me  out  and 
showed  me  the  moon  through  a  telescope.  He  said  that  was 
the  only  place  we  could  find  such  a  wonderful  valley.  He 
meant  it  was  moonshine,  but  we  adopted  the  name  and 
went  on  looking  for  it." 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      491 

"What  a  coincidence!"  Mrs.  Hale  exclaimed.  "For 
this  is  the  Valley  of  the  Moon." 

"I  know  it,"  Saxon  said  with  quiet  confidence.  "It 
has  everything  we  wanted." 

"But  you  don't  understand,  my  dear.  This  is  the  Val- 
ley of  the  Moon.  This  is  Sonoma  Valley.  Sonoma  is  an 
Indian  word,  and  means  the  Valley  of  the  Moon.  That 
was  what  the  Indians  called  it  for  untold  ages  before  the 
first  white  men  came.  We,  who  love  it,  still  so  call  it." 

And  then  Saxon  recalled  the  mysterious  references  Jack 
Hastings  and  his  wife  had  made  to  it,  and  the  talk  tripped 
along  until  Billy  grew  restless.  He  cleared  his  throat 
significantly  and  interrupted. 

"We  want  to  find  out  about  that  ranch  acrost  the 
creek — who  owns  it,  if  they'll  sell,  where  we'll  find  'em, 
an'  such  things." 

Mrs.  Hale  stood  up. 

"We'll  go  and  see  Edmund,"  she  said,  catching  Saxon 
by  the  hand  and  leading  the  way. 

"My!"  Billy  ejaculated,  towering  above  her.  "I  used 
to  think  Saxon  was  small.  But  she'd  make  two  of  you." 

"And  you're  pretty  big,"  the  little  woman  smiled;  "but 
Edmund  is  taller  than  you,  and  broader-shouldered." 

They  crossed  a  bright  hall,  and  found  the  big  beautiful 
husband  lying  back  reading  in  a  huge  Mission  rocker. 
Beside  it  was  another  tiny  child's  chair  of  red-enameled 
rattan.  Along  the  length  of  his  thigh,  the  head  on  his 
knee  and  directed  toward  a  smoldering  log  in  a  fireplace, 
clung  an  incredibly  large  striped  cat.  Like  its  master, 
it  turned  its  head  to  greet  the  newcomers.  Again  Saxon 
felt  the  loving  benediction  that  abided  in  his  face,  his 
eyes,  his  hands — toward  which  she  involuntarily  dropped 
her  eyes.  Again  she  was  impressed  by  the  gentleness  of 
them.  They  were  hands  of  love.  They  were  the  hands 
of  a  type  of  man  she  had  never  dreamed  existed.  No  one 
in  that  merry  crowd  of  Carmel  had  prefigured  him.  They 
were  artists.  This  was  the  scholar,  the  philosopher.  In 
place  of  the  passion  of  youth  and  all  youth's  mad  revolt, 


492  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

was  the  benignance  of  wisdom.  Those  gentle  hands  had 
passed  all  the  bitter  by  and  plucked  only  the  sweet  of  life. 
Dearly  as  she  loved  them,  she  shuddered  to  think  what 
some  of  those  Carmelites  would  be  like  when  they  were 
as  old  as  he — especially  the  dramatic  critic  and  the  Iron 
Man. 

' '  Here  are  the  dear  children,  Edmund, ' '  Mrs.  Hale  said. 
"What  do  you  think!  They  want  to  buy  the  Madrono 
Ranch.  They've  been  three  years  searching  for  it — I  for- 
got to  tell  them  we  had  searched  ten  years  for  Trillium 
Covert.  Tell  them  all  about  it.  Surely  Mr.  Naismitii  is 
still  of  a  mind  to  sell!" 

They  seated  themselves  in  simple  massive  chairs,  and 
Mrs.  Hale  took  the  tiny  rattan  beside  the  big  Mission 
rocker,  her  slender  hand  curled  like  a  tendril  in  Edmund's. 
And  while  Saxon  listened  to  the  talk,  her  eyes  took  in 
the  grave  rooms  lined  with  books.  She  began  to  realize 
how  a  mere  structure  of  wood  and  stone  may  express  the 
spirit  of  him  who  conceives  and  makes  it.  Those  gentle 
hands  had  made  all  this — the  very  furniture,  she  guessed, 
as  her  eyes  roved  from  desk  to  chair,  from  work  table  to 
reading  stand  beside  the  bed  in  the  other  room,  where 
stood  a  green-shaded  lamp  and  orderly  piles  of  magazines 
and  books. 

As  for  the  matter  of  Madrono  Ranch,  it  was  easy  enough, 
he  was  saying.  Naismith  would  sell.  Had  desired  to 
sell  for  the  past  five  years,  ever  since  he  had  engaged  in 
the  enterprise  of  bottling  mineral  water  at  the  springs 
lower  down  the  valley.  It  was  fortunate  that  he  was  the 
owner,  for  about  all  the  rest  of  the  surrounding  land  was 
owned  by  a  Frenchman — an  early  settler.  He  would  not 
part  with  a  foot  of  it.  He  was  a  peasant,  with  all  the 
peasant's  love  of  the  soil,  which,  in  him,  had  become  an 
obsession,  a  disease.  He  was  a  land-miser.  With  no  busi- 
ness capacity,  old  and  opinionated,  he  was  land  poor,  and 
it  was  an  open  question  which  would  arrive  first,  his  deatli 
or  bankruptcy. 

As  for  Madroiio  Ranch,   Naismith   owned   it   and   had 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     493 

set  the  price  at  fifty  dollars  an  acre.  That  would  be  one 
thousand  dollars,  for  there  were  twenty  acres.  As  a  farm- 
ing investment,  using  old-fashioned  methods,  it  was  not 
worth  it.  As  a  business  investment,  yes;  for  the  virtues 
of  the  valley  were  on  the  eve  of  being  discovered  by  the 
outside  world,  and  no  better  location  for  a  summer  home 
could  be  found.  As  a  happiness  investment  in  joy  of 
beauty  and  climate,  it  was  worth  a  thousand  times  the 
price  asked.  And  he  knew  Naismith  would  allow  time  on 
most  of  the  amount.  Edmund's  suggestion  was  that  they 
take  a  two  years'  lease,  with  option  to  buy,  the  rent  to 
apply  to  the  purchase  if  they  took  it  up.  Naismith  had 
done  that  once  with  a  Swiss,  who  had  paid  a  monthly 
rental  of  ten  dollars.  But  the  man's  wife  had  died,  and 
he  had  gone  away. 

Edmund  soon  divined  Billy's  renunciation,  though  not 
the  nature  of  it;  and  several  questions  brought  it  forth — 
the  old  pioneer  dream  of  land  spaciousness;  of  cattle  on 
a  hundred  hills;  one  hundred  and  sixty  acres  of  land  the 
smallest  thinkable  division. 

"But  you  don't  need  all  that  land,  dear  lad,"  Edmund 
said  softly.  "I  see  you  understand  intensive  farming. 
Have  you  thought  about  intensive  horse-raising?" 

Billy's  jaw  dropped  at  the  smashing  newness  of  the 
idea.  He  considered  it,  but  could  see  no  similarity  in 
the  two  processes.  Unbelief  leaped  into  his  eyes. 

"You  gotta  show  me!"  he  cried. 

The  elder  man  smiled  gently. 

"Let  us  see.  In  the  first  place,  you  don't  need  those 
twenty  acres  except  for  beauty.  There  are  five  acres  in 
the  meadow.  You  don't  need  more  than  two  of  them  to 
make  your  living  at  selling  vegetables.  In  fact,  you  ana. 
your  wife,  working  from  daylight  to  dark,  cannot  properly 
farm  those  two  acres.  Remains  three  acres.  You  have 
plenty  of  water  for  it  from  the  springs.  Don't  be  satisfied 
with  one  crop  a  year,  like  the  rest  of  the  old-fashioned 
farmers  in  this  valley.  Farm  it  like  your  vegetable  plot, 
intensively,  all  the  year,  in  crops  that  make  horse-feed,  ir 


494  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

rigating,  fertilizing,  rotating  your  crops.  Those  three  acres 
will  feed  as  many  horses  as  heaven  knows  how  huge  an 
area  of  unseeded,  uncared  for,  wasted  pasture  would  feed. 
Think  it  over.  I'll  lend  you  books  on  the  subject.  I  don't 
know  how  large  your  crops  will  be,  nor  do  I  know  how 
much  a  horse  eats;  that's  your  business.  But  I  am  cer- 
tain, with  a  hired  man  to  take  your  place  helping  your 
wife  on  her  two  acres  of  vegetables,  that  by  the  time  you 
own  the  horses  your  three  acres  will  feed,  you  will  have 
all  you  can  attend  to.  Then  it  will  be  time  to  get  more 
land,  for  more  horses,  for  more  riches,  if  that  way  hap- 
piness lie." 

Billy  understood.     In  his  enthusiasm  he  dashed  out: 

"You're  some  farmer." 

Edmund  smiled  and  glanced  toward  his  wife. 

"Give  him  your  opinion  of  that,  Annette." 

Her  blue  eyes  twinkled  as  she  complied. 

"Why,  the  dear,  he  never  farms.  He  has  never  farmed. 
But  he  knows."  She  waved  her  hand  about  the  book- 
lined  walls.  "He  is  a  student  of  good.  He  studies  all 
good  things  done  by  good  men  under  the  sun.  His  pleasure 
is  in  books  and  wood- working. " 

"Don't  forget  Dulcie,"  Edmund  gently  protested. 

"Yes,  and  Dulcie."  Annette  laughed.  "Dulcie  is  our 
cow.  It  is  a  great  question  with  Jack  Hastings  whether 
Edmund  dotes  more  on  Dulcie,  or  Dulcie  dotes  more  on 
Edmund.  When  he  goes  to  San  Francisco  Duleie  is  mis- 
erable. So  is  Edmund,  until  he  hastens  back.  Oh,  Dulcie 
has  given  me  no  few  jealous  pangs.  But  I  have  to  con- 
fess he  understands  her  as  no  one  else  does." 

"That  is  the  one  practical  subject  I  know  by  experience, ' ' 
Edmund  confirmed.  "I  am  an  authority  on  Jersey  cows. 
Call  upon  me  any  time  for  counsel. ' ' 

He  stood  up  and  went  toward  his  book-shelves ;  and  they 
saw  how  magnificently  large  a  man  he  was.  He  paused, 
a  book  in  his  hand,  to  answer  a  question  from  Saxon. 
No ;  there  were  no  mosquitoes,  although,  one  summer  when 
the  south  wind  blew  for  ten  days — an  unprecedented 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     495 

thing — a  few  mosquitoes  had  been  carried  up  from  San 
Pablo  Bay.  As  for  fog,  it  was  the  making  of  the  valley. 
And  where  they  were  situated,  sheltered  behind  Sonoma 
Mountain,  the  fogs  were  almost  invariably  high  fogs. 
Sweeping  in  from  the  ocean  forty  miles  away,  they  were 
deflected  by  Sonoma  Mountain  and  shunted  high  into  the 
air.  Another  thing,  Trillium  Covert  and  Madrono  Ranch 
were  happily  situated  in  a  narrow  thermal  belt,  so  that  in 
the  frosty  mornings  of  winter  the  temperature  was  always 
several  degrees  higher  than  in  the  rest  of  the  valley.  In 
fact,  frost  was  very  rare  in  the  thermal  belt,  as  was  proved 
by  the  successful  cultivation  of  certain  orange  and  lemon 
trees. 

Edmund  continued  reading  titles  and  selecting  books  un- 
til he  had  drawn  out  quite  a  number.  He  opened  the 
top  one,  Bolton  Hall's  "Three  Acres  and  Liberty,"  and 
read  to  them  of  a  man  who  walked  six  hundred  and  fifty 
miles  a  year  in  cultivating,  by  old-fashioned  methods, 
twenty  acres,  from  which  he  harvested  three  thousand 
bushels  of  poor  potatoes;  and  of  another  man,  a  "new" 
farmer,  who  cultivated  only  five  acres,  walked  two  hun- 
dred miles,  and  produced  three  thousand  bushels  of  po- 
tatoes, early  and  choice,  which  he  sold  at  many  times  the 
price  received  by  the  first  man. 

Saxon  received  the  books  from  Edmund,  and,  as  she 
heaped  them  in  Billy's  arms,  read  the  titles.  They  were: 
Wickson's  "California  Fruits,"  Wickson's  "California 
Vegetables,"  Brooks'  "Fertilizers,"  Watson's  "Farm 
Poultry,"  King's  "Irrigation  and  Di-ainage,"  "Kropot- 
kin's  "Fields,  Factories  and  Workshops,"  and  Farmer's 
Bulletin  Na  22  on  "The  Feeding  of  Farm  Animals." 

' '  Come  for  more  any  time  you  want  them, ' '  Edmund  in- 
vited. "I  have  hundreds  of  volumes  on  farming,  and  all 
the  Agricultural  Bulletins.  .  .  .  And  you  must  come 
and  get  acquainted  with  Dulcie  your  first  spare  time,'* 
he  called  after  them  out  the  door. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

MBS.  MORTIMER  arrived  with  seed  catalogs  and  farm 
books,  to  find  Saxon  immersed  in  the  farm  books  bor- 
rowed from  Edmund.  Saxon  shoAved  her  around,  and  she 
was  delighted  with  everything,  including  the  terms  of 
the  lease  and  its  option  to  buy. 

''And  now,"  she  said.  "What  is  to  be  done?  Sit  down, 
both  of  you.  This  is  a  council  of  war,  and  I  am  the  one 
person  in  the  world  to  tell  you  what  to  do.  I  ought  to  be. 
Anybody  who  has  reorganized  and  recatalogued  a  great 
city  library  should  be  able  to  start  you  young  people  off 
in  short  order.  Now,  where  shall  we  begin?" 

She  paused  for  breath  of  consideration. 

' '  First,  Madrono  Ranch  is  a  bargain.  I  know  soil,  I  know 
beauty,  I  know  climate.  Madrono  Ranch  is  a  gold  mine. 
There  is  a  fortune  in  that  meadow.  Tilth — I'll  tell  you 
about  that  later.  First,  here's  the  land.  Second,  what 
are  you  going  to  do  with  it  ?  Make  a  living  f  Yes.  Vege- 
tables? Of  course.  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  them 

after  you  have  grown  them?  Sell.  Where?  Now 

listen.  You  must  do  as  I  did.  Cut  out  the  middle  man. 
Sell  directly  to  the  consumer.  Drum  up  your  own  mar- 
ket. Do  you  know  what  I  saw  from  the  car  windows, 
coming  up  the  valley,  only  several  miles  from  here?  Ho- 
tels, springs,  summer  resorts,  winter  resorts — population, 
mouths,  market.  How  is  that  market  supplied  ?  I  looked 
in  vain  for  truck  gardens.  — Billy,  harness  up  your 
horses  and  be  ready  directly  after  dinner  to  take  Saxon 
and  me  driving.  Never  mind  everything  else.  Let  things 
stand.  What's  the  use  of  starting  for  a  place  of  which 
you  haven't  the  address.  We'll  look  for  the  address  this 

afternoon.  Then  we'll  know  where  we  are — at."  Thg 

last  syllable  a  smiling  concession  to  Billy. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     497 

But  Saxon  did  not  accompany  them.  There  was  too 
much  to  be  done  in  cleaning  the  long-abandoned  house 
and  in  preparing  an  arrangement  for  Mrs.  Mortimer  tc 
sleep.  And  it  was  long  after  supper  time  when  Airs.  Mor- 
timer and  Billy  returned. 

"You  lucky,  lucky  children,"  she  began  immediately. 
"This  valley  is  just  waking  up.  Here's  your  market. 
There  isn't  a  competitor  in  the  valley.  I  thought  those 
resorts  looked  new — Caliente,  Boyes  Hot  Springs,  El  Ve- 
rano,  and  all  along  the  line.  Then  there  are  three  little 
'hotels  in  Glen  Ellen,  right  next  door.  Oh,  I've  talked 
with  all  the  owners  and  managers." 

"She's  a  wooz,"  Billy  admired.  "She'd  brace  up  to 
•God  on  a  business  proposition.  You  oughta  seen  her." 

Mrs.  Mortimer  acknowledged  the  compliment  and  dashed 
on. 

"And  where  do  all  the  vegetables  come  from?  Wagons 
drive  down  twelve  to  fifteen  miles  from  Santa  Rosa,  and 
up  from  Sonoma.  Those  are  the  nearest  truck  farms,  and 
when  they  fail,  as  they  often  do,  I  am  told,  to  supply  the 
increasing  needs,  the  managers  have  to  express  vegetables 
all  the  way  from  San  Francisco.  I've  introduced  Billy. 
They've  agreed  to  patronize  home  industry.  Besides,  it 
is  better  for  them.  You'll  deliver  just  as  good  vegetables 
just  as  cheap;  you  will  make  it  a  point  to  deliver  better, 
fresher  vegetables;  and  don't  forget  that  delivery  for 
you  will  be  cheaper  by  virtue  of  the  shorter  haul. 

"No  day-old  egg  stunt  here.  No  jams  nor  jellies.  But 
you've  got  lots  of  space  up  on  the  bench  here  on  which 
you  can't  grow  vegetables.  To-morrow  morning  111  help 
you  lay  out  the  chicken  runs  and  houses.  Besides,  there 
is  the  matter  of  capons  for  the  San  Francisco  market. 
You'll  start  small.  It  will  be  a  side  line  at  first.  I'll 
tell  you  all  about  that,  too,  and  send  you  the  literature. 
You  must  use  your  head.  Let  others  do  the  work.  You 
must  understand  that  thoroughly.  The  wages  of  super- 
intendence are  always  larger  than  the  wages  of  the  la- 
borers. You  must  keep  books.  You  must  know  where 


498  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

you  stand.  You  must  know  what  pays  and  what  doesn't, 
and  what  pays  best.  Your  books  will  tell  that.  I'll  show 
you  all  in  good  time." 

"An'  think  of  it— all  that  on  two  acres!"  Billy  mur- 
mured. 

Mrs.  Mortimer  looked  at  him  sharply. 

"Two  acres  your  granny,"  she  said  with  asperity. 
''Five  acres.  And  then  you  won't  be  able  to  supply  your 
market.  And  you,  my  boy,  as  soon  as  the  first  rains  come, 
will  have  your  hands  full  and  your  horses  weary  draining 
that  meadow.  We'll  work  those  plans  out  to-morrow. 
Also,  there  is  the  matter  of  berries  on  the  bench  here — and 
trellised  table  grapes,  the  choicest.  They  bring  the  fancy 
prices.  There  will  be  blackberries — Burbank's,  he  lives 
at  Santa  Rosa — Loganberries,  Mammoth  berries.  But  don 't 
fool  with  strawberries.  That's  a  whole  occupation  in 
itself.  They're  not  vines,  you  know.  I've  examined  the 
orchard.  It 's  a  good  foundation.  We  '11  settle  the  pruning 
and  grafts  later." 

"But  Billy  wanted  three  acres  of  the  meadow,"  Saxon 
explained  at  the  first  chance. 

"What  for?" 

"To  grow  hay  and  other  kinds  of  food  for  the  horses 
he's  going  to  raise." 

"Buy  it  out  of  a  portion  of  the  profits  from  those  three 
acres,"  Mrs.  Mortimer  decided  on  the  instant. 

Billy  swallowed,  and  again  achieved  renunciation. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  with  a  brave  show  of  cheerful- 
ness. "Let  her  go.  Us  for  the  greens." 

During  the  several  days  of  Mrs.  Mortimer's  visit,  Billy 
let  the  two  women  settle  things  for  themselves.  Oakland 
had  entered  upon  a  boom,  and  from  the  West  Oakland 
stables  had  come  an  urgent  letter  for  more  horses.  So 
Billy  was  out,  early  and  late,  scouring  the  surrounding 
country  for  young  work  animals.  In  this  way,  at  the 
start,  he  learned  his  valley  thoroughly.  There  was  also 
a  clearing  out  at  the  West  Oakland  stables  of  mares 
whose  feet  had  been  knocked  out  on  the  hard  city  pave- 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     499 

ments,  and  he  was  offered  first  choice  at  bargain  prices. 
They  were  good  animals.  He  knew  what  they  were  be- 
cause he  knew  them  of  old  time.  The  soft  earth  of  the 
country,  with  a  preliminary  rest  in  pasture  with  their 
shoes  pulled  off,  would  put  them  in  shape.  They  would 
never  do  again  on  hard-paved  streets,  but  there  were  years 
of  farm  work  in  them.  And  then  there  was  the  breeding. 
But  he  could  not  undertake  to  buy  them.  He  fought  out 
the  battle  in  secret  and  said  nothing  to  Saxon. 

At  night,  he  would  sit  in  the  kitchen  and  smoke,  listen- 
ing to  all  that  the  two  women  had  done  and  planned  in 
the  day.  The  right  kind  of  horses  was  hard  to  buy,  and, 
as  he  put  it,  it  was  like  pulling  a  tooth  to  get  a  farmer 
to  part  with  one,  despite  the  fact  that  he  had  been  author- 
ized to  increase  the  buying  sum  by  as  much  as  fifty  dollars. 
Despite  the  coming  of  the  automobile,  the  price  of  heavy 
draught  animals  continued  to  rise.  From  as  early  as 
Billy  could  remember,  the  price  of  the  big  work  horses 
had  increased  steadily.  After  the  great  earthquake,  the 
price  had  jumped;  yet  it  had  never  gone  back. 

"Billy,  you  make  more  money  as  a  horse-buyer  than 
a  common  laborer,  don't  you?"  Mrs.  Mortimer  asked. 
"Very  well,  then.  You  won't  have  to  drain  the  meadow, 
or  plow  it,  or  anything.  You  keep  right  on  buying  horses. 
Work  with  your  head.  But  out  of  what  you  make  you 
will  please  pay  the  wages  of  one  laborer  for  Saxon's  vege- 
tables. It  will  be  a  good  investment,  with  quick  returns." 

"Sure,"  he  agreed.  "That's  all  anybody  hires  any- 
body for — to  make  money  outa'm.  But  how  Saxon  an' 
one  man  are  goin'  to  work  them  five  acres,  when  Mr.  Hale 
says  two  of  us  couldn't  do  what's  needed  on  two  acres, 
is  beyond  me." 

"Saxon  isn't  going  to  work,"  Mrs.  Mortimer  retorted. 
"Did  you  see  me  working  at  San  Jose?  Saxon  is  going 
to  use  her  head.  It's  about  time  you  woke  up  to  that. 
A  dollar  and  a  half  a  day  is  what  is  earned  by  persons 
who  don't  use  their  heads.  And  she  isn't  going  to  be 
satisfied  with  a  dollar  and  a  half  a  day.  Now  listen.  I 


500  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

had  a  long  talk  with  Mr.  Hale  this  afternoon.  He  says 
there  are  practically  no  efficient  laborers  to  be  hired  in 
the  valley." 

"I  know  that,"  Billy  interjected.  "All  the  good  men 
go  to  the  cities.  It's  only  the  leavin's  that's  left.  The 
good  ones  that  stay  behind  ain't  workin'  for  wages." 

"Which  is  perfectly  true,  every  word.  Now  listen,  chil- 
dren. I  knew  about  it,  and  I  spoke  to  Mr.  Hale.  He  is 
prepared  to  make  the  arrangements  for  you.  He  knows 
all  about  it  himself,  and  is  in  touch  with  the  "Warden. 
In  short,  you  will  parole  two  good-conduct  prisoners  from 
San  Quentin;  and  they  will  be  gardeners.  There  are 
plenty  of  Chinese  and  Italians  there,  and  they  are  the  best 
truck-farmers.  You  kill  two  birds  with  one  stone.  You 
serve  the  poor  convicts,  and  you  serve  yourselves." 

Saxon  hesitated,  shocked;  while  Billy  gravely  consid- 
ered the  question. 

' '  You  know  John, ' '  Mrs.  Mortimer  went  on,  ' '  Mr.  Hale  'a 
man  about  the  place  ?  How  do  you  like  him  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  I  was  wishing  only  to-day  that  we  could  find  some- 
body like  him,"  Saxon  said  eagerly.  "He's  such  a  dear, 
faithful  soul.  Mrs.  Hale  told  me  a  lot  of  fine  things  about 
him." 

"There's  one  thing  she  didn't  tell  you,"  smiled  Mrs. 
Mortimer.  "John  is  a  paroled  convict.  Twenty-eight 
years  ago,  in  hot  blood,  he  killed  a  man  in  a  quarrel  over 
sixty- five  cents.  He's  been  out  of  prison  with  the  Hales 
three  years  now.  You  remember  Louis,  the  old  French- 
man, on  my  place?  He's  another.  So  that's  settled. 
When  your  two  come — of  course  you  will  pay  them  fair' 
wages — and  we'll  make  sure  they're  the  same  nationality, 
either  Chinese  or  Italians — well,  when  they  come,  John, 
with  their  help,  and  under  Mr.  Hale's  guidance,  will  knock 
together  a  small  cabin  for  them  to  live  in.  We'll  select 
the  spot.  Even  so,  when  your  farm  is  in  full  swing  you'll 
have  to  have  more  outside  help.  So  keep  your  eyes  open, 
Billy,  while  you're  gallivanting  over  the  valley." 

The  next  night  Billy  failed  to  return,  and  at  nine  o'clock 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      503 

a  Glen  Ellen  boy  on  horseback  delivered  a  telegram.  Billy 
had  sent  it  from  Lake  County.  He  was  after  horses  for 
Oakland. 

Not  until  the  third  night  did  he  arrive  home,  tired  to 
exhaustion,  but  with  an  ill  concealed  air  of  pride. 

"Now  what  have  you  been  doing  these  three  days?" 
Mrs.  Mortimer  demanded. 

"Usin'  my  head,"  he  boasted  quietly.  "Killin'  two 
birds  with  one  stone;  an',  take  it  from  me,  I  killed  a 
whole  flock.  Huh!  I  got  word  of  it  at  Lawndale,  an'  I 
wanta  tell  you  Hazel  an'  Hattie  was  some  tired  when  I 
stabled  'm  at  Calistoga  an'  pulled  out  on  the  stage  over 
St.  Helena.  I  was  Johnny-on-the-spot,  an'  I  nailed  'm— 
eight  whoppers — the  whole  outfit  of  a  mountain  teamster. 
Young  animals,  sound  as  a  dollar,  and  the  lightest  of 
'em  over  fifteen  hundred.  I  shipped  'm  last  night  from 
Calistoga.  An',  well,  that  ain't  all. 

"Before  that,  first  day,  at  Lawndale,  I  seen  the  fellow 
with  the  teamin'  contract  for  the  pavin '-stone  quarry. 
Sell  horses!  He  wanted  to  buy  'em.  He  wanted  to  buy 
'em  bad.  He'd  even  rent  'em,  he  said." 

' '  And  you  sent  him  the  eight  you  bought ! ' '  Saxon  broke 
in. 

"Guess  again.  I  bought  them  eight  with  Oakland 
money,  an'  they  was  shipped  to  Oakland.  But  I  got  the 
Lawndale  contractor  on  long  distance,  and  he  agreed  to 
pay  me  half  a  dollar  a  day  rent  for  every  work  horse  up 
to  half  a  dozen.  Then  I  telegraphed  the  Boss,  tellin'  him 
to  ship  me  six  sore-footed  mares,  Bud  Strothers  to  make 
the  choice,  an'  to  charge  to  my  commission.  Bud  knows 
what  I'm  after.  Soon  as  they  come,  off  go  their  shoes, 
Two  weeks  in  pasture,  an'  then  they  go  to  Lawndale, 
They  can  do  the  work.  It 's  a  down-hill  haul  to  the  railroad 
on  a  dirt  road.  Half  a  dollar  rent  each — that's  three 
dollars  a  day  they'll  bring  me  six  days  a  week.  I  don't 
feed  'em,  shoe  'm,  or  nothin',  an'  I  keep  an  eye  on  'm  to 
see  they're  treated  right.  Three  bucks  a  day,  eh!  Well, 
I  guess  that'll  keep  a  couple  of  dollar-an '-a-half  men  goin' 


502  THE   VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

for  Saxon,  unless  she  works  'em  Sundays.  Huh!  The 
Valley  of  the  Moon!  Why,  we'll  be  wearin'  diamonds 
before  long.  Gosh!  A  fellow  could  live  in  the  city  a 
thousan'  years  an'  not  get  such  chances.  It  beats  China 
lottery." 

He  stood  up. 

"I'm  goin'  out  to  water  Hazel  an'  Hattie,  feed  'm,  an' 
feed  'm  down.  I'll  eat  soon  as  I  come  back/' 

The  two  women  were  regarding  each  other  with  shining 
eyes,  each  on  the  verge  of  speech  when  Billy  returned 
to  the  door  and  stuck  his  head  in. 

"They's  one  thing  maybe  you  ain't  got,"  he  said.  "I 
pull  down  them  three  dollars  every  day ;  but  the  six  mares 
is  mine,  too.  I  own  'm.  They'remwe.  Are  you  onf" 


CHAPTER   XX 

"I'M  not  done  with  you  children,"  ha<l  been  Mrs.  Mor- 
timer 's  parting  words ;  and  several  times  that  winter  she 
ran  up  to  advise,  and  to  teach  Saxon  how  to  calculate  her 
crops  for  the  small  immediate  market,  for  the  increasing 
spring  market,  and  for  the  height  of  summer,  at  which 
time  she  would  be  able  to  sell  all  she  could  possibly  grow 
and  then  not  supply  the  demand.  In  the  meantime,  Hazel 
and  Hattie  were  used  every  odd  moment  in  hauling  manure 
from  Glen  Ellen,  whose  barnyards  had  never  known  such 
a  thorough  cleaning.  Also  there  were  loads  of  commercial 
fertilizer  from  the  railroad  station,  bought  under  Mrs. 
Mortimer 's  instructions. 

The  convicts  paroled  were  Chinese.  Both  had  served 
long  in  prison,  and  were  old  men;  but  the  day's  work 
they  were  habitually  capable  of  won  Mrs.  Mortimer's  ap- 
proval. Gow  Yum,  twenty  years  before,  had  had  charge 
of  the  vegetable  garden  of  one  of  the  great  Menlo  Park  es- 
tates. His  disaster  had  come  in  the  form  of  a  fight  over 
a  game  of  fan  tan  in  the  Chinese  quarter  at  Redwood 
City.  His  companion,  Chan  Chi,  had  been  a  hatchet-man 
of  note,  in  the  old  fighting  days  of  the  San  Francisco 
•.  tongs.  But  a  quarter  of  century  of  discipline  in  the  prison 
vegetable  gardens  had  cooled  his  blood  and  turned  his 
hand  from  hatchet  to  hoe.  These  two  assistants  had  ar- 
rived in  Glen  Ellen  like  precious  goods  in  bond  and  been 
receipted  for  by  the  local  deputy  sheriff,  who,  in  addition, 
reported  on  them  to  the  prison  authorities  each  month. 
Saxon,  too,  made  out  a  monthly  report  and  sent  it  in. 

As  for  the  danger  of  their  cutting  her  throat,  she  quickly 
got  over  the  idea  of  it.  The  mailed  hand  of  the  State 
hovered  over  them.  The  taking  of  a  single  drink  of  liquor 
503 


504  THE    VALLEY   OF    THE    MOON 

would  provoke  that  hand  to  close  down  and  jerk  them  back 
to  prison-cells.  Nor  had  they  freedom  of  movement.  When 
old  Gow  Yum  needed  to  go  to  San  Francisco  to  sign  cer- 
tain papers  before  the  Chinese  Consul,  permission  had  first 
to  be  obtained  from  San  Quentin.  Then,  too,  neither 
man  was  nasty  tempered.  Saxon  had  been  apprehensive 
of  the  task  of  bossing  two  desperate  convicts;  but  when 
they  came  she  found  it  a  pleasure  to  work  with  them. 
She  could  tell  them  what  to  do,  but  it  was  they  who  knew 
how  to  do.  From  them  she  learned  all  the  ten  thousand 
tricks  and  quirks  of  artful  gardening,  and  she  was  not 
long  in  realizing  how  helpless  she  would  have  been  had  she 
depended  on  local  labor. 

Still  further,  she  had  no  fear,  because  she  was  not  alone. 
She  had  been  using  her  head.  It  was  quickly  apparent  to 
her  that  she  could  not  adequately  oversee  the  outside 
work  and  at  the  same  time  do  the  house  work.  She  wrote 
to  Ukiah  to  the  energetic  widow  who  had  lived  in  the 
adjoining  house  and  taken  in  washing.  She  had  promptly 
closed  with  Saxon's  offer.  Mrs.  Paul  was  forty,  short  in 
stature,  and  weighed  two  hundred  pounds,  but  never  wear- 
ied on  her  feet.  Also  she  was  devoid  of  fear,  and,  ac- 
cording to  Billy,  could  settle  the  hash  of  both  Chinese 
with  one  of  her  mighty  arms.  Mrs.  Paul  arrived  with 
her  son,  a  country  lad  of  sixteen  who  knew  horses  and 
could  milk  Hilda,  the  pretty  Jersey  which  had  success- 
fully passed  Edmund's  expert  eye.  Though  Mrs.  Paul 
ably  handled  the  house,  there  was  one  thing  Saxon  in- 
sisted on  doing — namely,  washing  her  own  pretty  flimsies. 

"When  I'm  no  longer  able  to  do  that,"  she  told  Billy, 
"you  can  take  a  spade  to  that  clump  of  redwoods  beside 
Wild  Water  and  dig  a  hole.  It  will  be  time  to  bury  me." 

It  was  early  in  the  days  of  Madrono  Ranch,  at  the 
time  of  Mrs.  Mortimer's  second  visit,  that  Billy  drove  in 
with  a  load  of  pipe;  and  house,  chicken  yards,  and  barn 
were  piped  from  the  second-hand  tank  he  installed  below 
the  house-spring. 

' '  Huh !    I  guess  I  can  use  my  head, ' '  he  said.    I  watched 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     505 

a  woman  over  on  the  other  side  of  the  valley,  packin' 
water  two  hundred  feet  from  the  spring  to  the  house; 
an'  I  did  some  figurin'.  I  put  it  at  three  trips  a  day  and 
on  wash  days  a  whole  lot  more ;  an '  you  can 't  guess  what 
I  made  out  she  traveled  a  year  packin'  water.  One  hun- 
dred an '  twenty-two  miles.  D  'ye  get  that  ?  One  hundred 
and  twenty-two  miles!  I  asked  her  how  long  she'd  ben 
there.  Thirty-one  years.  Multiply  it  for  yourself.  Three 
thousan',  seven  hundred  an'  eighty- two  miles — all  for  the 
sake  of  two  hundred  feet  of  pipe.  Wouldn't  that  jar 
you! 

"Oh,  I  ain't  done  yet.  They's  a  bath-tub  an'  stationary 

tubs  a-comin'  soon  as  I  can  see  my  way.  An',  say, 

Saxon,  you  know  that  little  clear  flat  just  where  Wild 
Water  runs  into  Sonoma.  They's  all  of  an  acre  of  it. 
An'  it's  mine!  Got  that?  An'  no  walkin'  on  the  grass 
for  you.  It'll  be  my  grass.  I'm  goin'  up  stream  a  ways 
an'  put  in  a  ram.  I  got  a  big  second-hand  one  staked  out 
that  I  can  get  for  ten  dollars,  an'  it'll  pump  more  water 'n 
I  need.  An'  you'll  see  alfafa  growin'  that'll  make  your 
mouth  water.  I  gotta  have  another  horse  to  travel  around 
on.  You're  usin'  Hazel  an'  Hattie  too  much  to  give  me 
a  chance;  an'  I'll  never  see  'm  as  soon  as  you  start  de- 
liverin'  vegetables.  I  guess  that  alfafa '11  help  some  to 
keep  another  horse  goin'." 

But  Billy  was  destined  for  a  time  to  forget  his  alfalfa 
in  the  excitement  of  bigger  ventures.  First,  came  trou- 
ble. The  several  hundred  dollars  he  had  arrived  with 
'in  Sonoma  Valley,  and  all  his  own  commissions  since 
earned,  had  gone  into  improvements  and  living.  The  eigh- 
teen dollars  a  week  rental  for  his  six  horses  at  Lawndale 
went  to  pay  wages.  And  he  was  unable  to  buy  the  needed 
saddle-horse  for  his  horse-buying  expeditions.  This,  how- 
ever, he  had  got  around  by  again  using  his  head  and  kill- 
ing two  birds  with  one  stone.  He  began  breaking  colts 
to  drive,  and  in  the  driving  drove  them  wherever  he  sought 
horses. 

So  far  all  was  well.    But  a  new  administration  in  San 


506  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

Francisco,  pledged  to  economy,  had  stopped  all  street  work. 
This  meant  the  shutting  down  of  the  Lawndale  quarry, 
which  was  one  of  the  sources  of  supply  for  paving  blocks. 
The  six  horses  would  not  only  be  back  on  his  hands, 
but  he  would  have  to  feed  them.  How  Mrs.  Paul,  Gow 
Yum,  and  Chan  Chi  were  to  be  paid  was  beyond  him. 

"I  guess  we've  bit  off  more'n  we  could  chew,"  he  ad- 
mitted to  Saxon. 

That  night  he  was  late  in  coming  home,  but  brought 
with  him  a  radiant  face.  Saxon  was  no  less  radiant. 

"It's  all  right,"  she  greeted  him,  coming  out  to  the 
barn  where  he  was  unhitching  a  tired  but  fractious  colt. 
"I've  talked  with  all  three.  They  see  the  situation,  and 
are  perfectly  willing  to  let  their  wages  stand  a  while. 
By  another  week  I  start  Hazel  and  Hattie  delivering  vege- 
tables. Then  the  money  will  pour  in  from  the  hotels  and 
my  books  won't  look  so  lopsided.  And — oh,  Billy — you'd 
never  guess.  Old  Gow  Yum  has  a  bank  account.  He 
came  to  me  afterward — I  guess  he  was  thinking  it  over — 
and  offered  to  lend  me  four  hundred  dollars.  What  do 
you  think  of  that?" 

"That  I  ain't  goin'  to  be  too  proud  to  borrow  it  off  'm, 
if  he  is  a  Chink.  He's  a  white  one,  an'  maybe  I'll  need 
it.  Because,  you  see — well,  you  can't  guess  what  I've  ben 
up  to  since  I  seen  you  this  mornin'.  I've  ben  so  busy  I 
ain't  had  a  bite  to  eat." 

"Using  your  head?"    She  laughed. 

"You  can  call  it  that, ' '  he  joined  in  her  laughter.  "  I  Ve 
ben  spendin'  money  like  water." 

"But  you  haven't  got  any  to  spend,"  she  objected. 

"I've  got  credit  in  this  valley,  I'll  let  you  know,"  he 
replied.  "An'  I  sure  strained  it  some  this  afternoon. 
Now  guess." 

"A  saddle-horse?" 

He  roared  with  laughter,  startling  the  colt,  which  tried 
to  bolt  and  lifted  him  half  off  the  ground  by  his  grip  on 
its  frightened  nose  and  neck. 

"Oh,  I  mean  real  guessin',"  he  urged,  when  the  animal 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      507 

had  dropped  back  to  earth  and  stood  regarding  him  with 
trembling  suspicion. 
' '  Two  saddle-horses  ? ' ' 

"Aw,  you  ain't  got  imagination.  I'll  tell  you.  You 
know  Thiercroft.  I  bought  his  big  wagon  from  'm  for 
sixty  dollars.  I  bought  a  wagon  from  the  Kenwrood  black- 
smith— so-so,  but  it'll  do — for  forty-five  dollars.  An'  I 
bought  Ping's  wagon — a  peach — for  sixty-five  dollars.  I 
could  a-got  it  for  fifty  if  he  hadn't  seen  I  wanted  it  bad." 

"But  the  money?"  Saxon  questioned  faintly.  "You 
hadn't  a  hundred  dollars  left." 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  I  had  credit?  Well,  I  have.  I  stood 
'm  off  for  them  wagons.  I  ain't  spent  a  cent  of  cash 
money  to-day  except  for  a  couple  of  long-distance  switches. 
Then  I  bought  three  sets  of  work-harness — they're  chain 
harness  an'  second-hand — for  twenty  dollars  a  set.  1 
bought  'm  from  the  fellow  that's  doin'  the  haulin'  for 
the  quarry.  He  don't  need  'm  any  more.  An'  I  rented 
four  wagons  from  'm,  an'  four  span  of  horses,  too,  at  half 
a  dollar  a  day  for  each  horse,  an'  half  a  dollar  a  day 
for  each  wagon — that's  six  dollars  a  day  rent  I  gotta  pay 
'm.  The  three  sets  of  spare  harness  is  for  my  six  horses. 
Then  .  .  .  lemme  see  ...  yep,  I  rented  two 
barns  in  Glen  Ellen,  an'  I  ordered  fifty  tons  of  hay  an* 
a  carload  of  bran  an'  barley  from  the  store  in  Kenwood — 
you  see,  I  gotta  feed  all  them  fourteen  horses,  an'  shoe 
'm,  an'  everything. 

"Oh,  sure  Pete,  I've  went  some.  I  hired  seven  men 
to  go  drivin'  for  me  at  two  dollars  a  day,  an5 — ouch! 
Jehosaphat !  What  you  doin ' ! " 

"No,"  Saxon  said  gravely,  having  pinched  him,  "you're 
not  dreaming."  She  felt  his  pulse  and  forehead.  "Not 
a  sign  of  fever."  She  sniffed  his  breath.  "And  you've 
not  been  drinking.  Go  on,  tell  me  the  rest  of  this 
.  .  .  whatever  it  is." 

"Ain't  you  satisfied?" 

"No.    I  want  more.    I  want  all." 

"  411  right.     But  I  just  want  you  to  know,  first,  that 


508  THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    MOON 

thei)oss  I  used  to  work  for  in  Oakland  ain't  got  nothin' 
on  me.  I'm  some  man  of  affairs,  if  anybody  should  ride 
up  on  a  vegetable  wagon  an'  ask  you.  Now,  I'm  goin'  to 
tell  you,  though  I  can't  see  why  the  Glen  Ellen  folks  didn't 
beat  me  to  it.  I  guess  they  was  asleep.  Nobody 'd  a-over- 
looked  a  thing  like  it  in  the  city.  You  see,  it  was  like 
this:  you  know  that  fancy  brickyard  they're  gettin'  ready 
to  start  for  makin'  extra  special  fire  brick  for  inside  walls? 
Well,  here  was  I  worryin'  about  the  six  horses  comin'  back 
on  my  hands,  earnin'  me  nothin'  an'  eatin'  me  into  the 
poorhouse.  I  had  to  get  'm  work  somehow,  an'  I  remem- 
bered the  brickyard.  I  drove  the  colt  down  an '  talked  with 
that  Jap  chemist  who 's  ben  doin '  the  experimentin '.  Gee ! 
They  was  foremen  lookin'  over  the  ground  an'  every- 
thing gettin'  ready  to  hum.  I  looked  over  the  lay  an' 
studied  it.  Then  I  drove  up  to  where  they're  openin' 
the  clay  pit — you  know,  that  fine,  white  chalky  stuff  we 
saw  'em  borin'  out  just  outside  the  hundred  an'  forty 
acres  with  the  three  knolls.  It's  a  down-hill  haul,  a  mile, 
an'  two  horses  can  do  it  easy.  In  fact,  their  hardest 
job '11  be  haulin'  the  empty  wagons  up  to  the  pit.  Then 
I  tied  the  colt  an'  went  to  figurin'. 

' '  The  Jap  professor  'd  told  me  the  manager  an '  the  other 
big  guns  of  the  company  was  comin'  up  on  the  mornin' 
train.  I  wasn't  shoutin'  things  out  to  anybody,  but  I  just 
made  myself  into  a  committee  of  welcome ;  an ',  when  the 
train  pulled  in,  there  I  was,  extendin'  the  glad  hand  of 
the  burg — likewise  the  glad  hand  of  a  guy  you  used  to 
know  in  Oakland  once,  a  third-rate  dub  prizefighter  by 
the  name  of — lemme  see — yep,  I  got  it  right — Big  Bill 
Roberts  was  the  name  he  used  to  sport,  but  now  he's 
known  as  Williams  Roberts,  E.  S.  Q. 

"Well,  as  I  was  sayin',  I  gave  'm  the  glad  hand,  an' 
trailed  along  with  'em  to  the  brickyard,  an'  from  the  talk  I 
could  see  things  was  doin'.  Then  I  watched  my  chance 
an'  sprung  my  proposition.  I  was  scared  stiff  all  the 
time  for  maybe  the  teamin'  was  already  arranged.  But 
I  knew  it  wasn't  when  they  asked  for  my  figures.  I  had 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      509 

'm  by  heart,  an'  I  rattled   'm  off,  and  the  top-guy  took 
'm  down  in  his  note-book. 

'  'We're  goin'  into  this  big,  an'  at  once,'  he  says,  look- 
in'  at  me  sharp.  'What  kind  of  an  outfit  you  got,  Mr. 
Roberts?' 

"Me! — with  only  Hazel  an'  Hattie,  an'  them  too  small 
;for  heavy  teamin'. 

'  'I  can  slap  fourteen  horses  an'  seven  wagons  onto 
the  job  at  the  jump,'  says  I.  'An'  if  you  want  more,  I'll 
get  'm,  that's  all.' 

"  'Give  us  fifteen  minutes  to  consider,  Mr.  Roberts/ 
he  says. 

'  '  Sure, '  says  I,  important  as  all  hell — ahem — me ! — '  but 
a  couple  of  other  things  first.  I  want  a  two  year  contract, 
an'  them  figures  all  depends  on  one  thing.  Otherwise  they 
don't  go.' 

"  'What's  that?'  he  says. 

:  'The  dump,'  says  I.  'Here  we  are  on  the  ground,  an' 
I  might  as  well  show  you.' 

"An'  I  did.  I  showed  'm  where  I'd  lose  out  if  they 
stuck  to  their  plan,  on  account  of  the  dip  down  an'  pull 
up  to  the  dump.  'All  you  gotta  do,'  I  says,  'is  to  build 
the  bunkers  fifty  feet  over,  throw  the  road  around  the 
rim  of  the  hill,  an'  make  about  seventy  or  eighty  feet 
of  elevated  bridge.' 

"Say,  Saxon,  that  kind  of  talk  got  'em.  It  was  straight. 
Only  they'd  ben  thinkin'  about  bricks,  while  I  was  only 
thinkin'  of  teamin'. 

"I  guess  they  was  all  of  half  an  hour  considering  an* 
I  was  almost  as  miserable  waitin'  as  when  I  waited  for  you 
to  say  yes  after  I  asked  you.  I  went  over  the  figures, 
calculatin '  what  I  could  throw  off  if  I  had  to.  You  see,  I  'd 
given  it  to  'em  stiff — regular  city  prices;  an'  I  was  pre- 
pared to  trim  down.  Then  they  come  back. 

"  'Prices  oughta  be  lower  in  the  country,'  says  the 
top-guy. 

"  'Nope,'  I  says.  'This  is  a  wine-grape  valley.  It  don't 
raise  enough  hay  an'  feed  for  its  own  animals.  It  has  to 


510  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

be  shipped  in  from  the  San  Joaquin  Valley.  Why,  I  can 
buy  hay  an'  feed  cheaper  in  San  Francisco,  laid  down, 
than  I  can  here  an'  haul  it  myself.' 

"An'  that  struck  'm  hard.  It  was  true,  an'  they  knew 
it.  But — say!  If  they'd  asked  about  wages  for  drivers, 
an'  about  horse-shoein'  prices,  I'd  a-had  to  come  down: 
because,  you  see,  they  ain't  no  teamsters'  union  in  the 
country,  an'  no  horseshoers'  union,  an'  rent  is  low,  an' 
them  two  items  come  a  whole  lot  cheaper.  Huh !  This 
afternoon  I  got  a  word  bargain  with  the  blacksmith  across 
from  the  post  office;  an'  he  takes  my  whole  bunch  an' 
throws  off  twenty-five  cents  on  each  shoein',  though  it's 
on  the  Q.  T.  But  they  didn't  think  to  ask,  bein'  too  full 
of  bricks." 

Billy  felt  in  his  breast  pocket,  drew  out  a  legal-looking 
document,  and  handed  it  to  Saxon. 

"There  it  is,"  he  said,"  "the  contract,  full  of  all  the 
agreements,  prices,  an'  penalties.  I  saw  Mr.  Hale  down 
town  an'  showed  it  to  'm.  He  says  it's  O.K.  An'  say, 
then  I  lit  out.  All  over  town,  Kenwood,  Lawndale,  every- 
where, everybody,  everything.  The  quarry  teamin'  fin- 
ishes Friday  of  this  week.  An'  I  take  the  whole  outfit 
an'  start  "Wednesday  of  next  week  haulin'  lumber  for 
the  buildin's,  an'  bricks  for  the  kilns,  an'  all  the  rest. 
An'  when  they're  ready  for  the  clay  I'm  the  boy  that'll 
give  it  to  them. 

"But  I  ain't  told  you  the  best  yet.  I  couldn't  get  the 
switch  right  away  from  Kenwood  to  Lawndale,  and  while 
1  waited  I  went  over  my  figures  again.  You  couldn't 
guess  it  in  a  million  years.  I  'd  made  a  mistake  in  addition 
somewhere,  an'  soaked  'm  ten  per  cent,  more'n  I'd  ex- 
pected. Talk  about  findin'  money!  Any  time  you  want 
them  couple  of  extra  men  to  help  out  with  the  vegetables, 
say  the  word.  Though  we're  goin'  to  have  to  pinch  the 
next  couple  of  months.  An'  go  ahead  an'  borrow  that 
four  hundred  from  Gow  Yum.  An'  tell  him  you'll  pay 
eight  per  cent,  interest,  an'  that  we  won't  want  it  rnore'u 
three  or  four  months." 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     511 

When  Billy  got  away  from  Saxon 's  arms,  he  started  lead- 
ing the  colt  up  and  down  to  cool  it  off.  He  stopped  so 
abruptly  that  his  back  collided  with  the  colt's  nose,  and 
there  was  a  lively  minute  of  rearing  and  plunging.  Saxon 
waited,  for  she  knew  a  fresh  idea  had  struck  Billy. 

' '  Say, ' '  he  said,  ' '  do  you  knciv  scything  about  bank 
accounts  an'  drawin'  checks?" 


(CHAPTER   XXI 

IT  was  on  a  bright  June  morning  that  Billy  told  Saxon 
to  put  on  her  riding  clothes  to  try  out  a  saddle-horse. 

"Not  until  after  ten  o'clock,"  she  said.  ''By  that 
time  I'll  have  the  wagon  off  on  the  second  trip." 

Despite  the  extent  of  the  business  she  had  developed,  her 
executive  ability  and  system  gave  her  much  spare  time. 
She  could  call  on  the  Hales,  which  was  ever  a  delight, 
especially  now  that  the  Hastings  were  back  and  that  Clara 
was  often  at  her  aunt's.  In  this  congenial  atmosphere 
Saxon  burgeoned.  She  had  begun  to  read — to  read  with 
understanding;  and  she  had  time  for  her  books,  for  work 
on  her  pretties,  and  for  Billy,  whom  she  accompanied  on 
many  expeditions. 

Billy  was  even  busier  than  she,  his  work  being  more 
scattered  and  diverse.  And,  as  well,  he  kept  his  eye  on 
the  home  barn  and  horses  which  Saxon  used.  In  truth 
he  had  become  a  man  of  affairs,  though  Mrs.  Mortimer  had 
gone  over  his  accounts,  with  an  eagle  eye  on  the  expense 
column,  discovering  several  minor  leaks,  and  finally,  aided 
by  Saxon,  bullied  him  into  keeping  books.  Each  night,  af- 
ter supper,  he  and  Saxon  posted  their  books.  Afterward, 
in  the  big  morris  chair  he  had  insisted  on  buying  early 
in  the  days  of  his  brickyard  contract,  Saxon  would  creep 
into  his  arms  and  strum  on  the  ukulele;  or  they  would 
talk  long  about  what  they  were  doing  and  planning  to  do. 
Now  it  would  be: 

"I'm  mixin'  up  in  politics,  Saxon.  It  pays.  You  bet 
it  pays.  If  by  next  spring  I  ain't  got  half  a  dozen  teams 
workin'  on  the  roads  an'  pullin'  down  the  county  money, 
it's  me  back  to  Oakland  an  askin'  the  Boss  for  a  job." 

Or,  Saxon:  "They're  really  starting  that  new  hotel 
.512 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     513 

between  Caliente  and  Eldridge.    And  there's  some  talk  of  a 
big  sanitarium  back  in  the  hills." 

Or,  it  would  be:  "Billy,  now  that  you've  piped  that 
acre,  you've  just  got  to  let  me  have  it  for  my  vegetables. 
I'll  rent  it  from  you.  I'll  take  your  own  estimate  for 
all  the  alfalfa  you  can  raise  on  it,  and  pay  you  full  market  ( 
price  less  the  cost  of  growing  it." 

•     "It's   all    right,    take   it."      Billy   suppressed   a   sigh. 
"Besides,  I'm  too  busy  to  fool  with  it  now." 

Which  prevarication  was  bare-faced,  by  virtue  of  his 
having  just  installed  the  ram  and  piped  the  land. 

"It  will  be  the  wisest,  Billy,"  she  soothed,  for  she  knew 
his  dream  of  land-spaciousness  was  stronger  than  ever. 
"You  don't  want  to  fool  with  an  acre.  There's  that  hun- 
dred and  forty.  "We'll  buy  it  yet  if  old  Chavon  ever 
dies.  Besides,  it  really  belongs  to  Madrono  Eanch.  The 
two  together  were  the  original  quarter  section." 

"I  don't  wish  no  man's  death,"  Billy  grumbled.  "But 
he  ain't  gettin'  no  good  out  of  it,  over-pasturin'  it  with 
a  lot  of  scrub  animals.  I've  sized  it  up  every  inch  of  it. 
They's  at  least  forty  acres  in  the  three  cleared  fields, 
with  water  in  the  hills  behind  to  beat  the  band.  The 
horse  feed  I  could  raise  on  it'd  take  your  breath  away. 
Then  they's  at  least  fifty  acres  I  could  run  my  brood 
mares  on,  pasture  mixed  up  with  trees  and  steep  places  and 
such.  The  other  fifty's  just  thick  woods,  an'  pretty  places, 
an' wild  game.  An '  that  old  adobe  barn 's  all  right.  With 
a  new  roof  it'd  shelter  any  amount  of  animals  in  bad 
weather.  Look  at  me  now,  rentin'  that  measly  pasture 
back  of  Ping's  just  to  run  my  restin'  animals.  They  could 
run  in  the  hundred  an'  forty  if  I  only  had  it.  I  wonder 
if  Chavon  would  lease  it." 

Or,  less  ambitious,  Billy  would  say:  "I  gotta  skin 
over  to  Petaluma  to-morrow,  Saxon.  They's  an  auction 
on  the  Atkinson  Ranch  an'  maybe  I  can  pick  up  some 
bargains. ' ' 

"More  horses!" 

"Ain't  I  got  two  teams  haulin'  lumber  for  the  new  win- 


514  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

ery  ?  An '  Barney 's  got  a  bad  shoulder-sprain.  He  '11  have 
to  lay  off  a  long  time  if  he's  to  get  it  in  shape.  An'  Bridget 
ain't  ever  goin'  to  do  a  tap  of  work  again.  I  can  see  that 
stickin'  out.  I've  doctored  her  an'  doctored  her.  She's 
fooled  the  vet,  too.  An'  some  of  the  other  horses  has 
gotta  take  a  rest.  That  span  of  grays  is  showin'  the  hard 
work.  An'  the  big  roan's  goin'  loco.  Everybody  thought 
it  was  his  teeth,  but  it  ain't.  It's  straight  loco.  It's 
money  in  pocket  to  take  care  of  your  animals,  an'  horses 
is  the  delicatest  things  on  four  legs.  Some  time,  if  I  can 
ever  see  my  way  to  it,  I'm  goin'  to  ship  a  carload  of  mules 
from  Colusa  County — big,  heavy  ones,  you  know.  They'd 
sell  like  hot  cakes  in  the  valley  here — them  I  didn't  want 
for  myself." 

Or,  in  lighter  vein,  Billy :  ' '  By  the  way,  Saxon,  talkin ' 
of  accounts,  what  d 'you  think  Hazel  an'  Hattie  is  worth? — 
fair  market  price?" 

"Why?" 

"I'm  askin'  you." 

"Well,  say,  what  you  paid  for  them — three  hundred 
dollars." 

"Hum."  Billy  considered  deeply.  "They're  worth  a 
whole  lot  more,  but  let  it  go  at  that.  An'  now,  gettin* 
back  to  accounts,  suppose  you  write  me  a  check  for  three 
hundred  dollars." 

"Oh!     Robber!" 

"You  can't  show  me.  Why,  Saxon,  when  I  let  you 
have  grain'  an'  hay  from  my  carloads,  don't  you  give  me 
a  check  for  it?  An'  you  know  how  you're  stuck  on  keepin1 
•your  accounts  down  to  the  penny,"  he  teased.  "If  you're 
any  kind  of  a  business  woman  you  just  gotta  charge  your 
business  with  them  two  horses.  I  ain't  had  the  use  of 
'em  since  I  don't  know  when." 

"But  the  colts  will  be  yours,"  she  argued.  "Besides, 
I  can't  afford  brood  mares  in  my  business.  In  almost 
no  time,  now,  Hazel  and  Hattie  will  have  to  be  taken 
off  from  the  wagon — they're  too  good  for  it  anyway. 
And  you  keep  your  eyes  open  for  a  pair  to  take  their 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     515 

place.  Ill  give  you  a  check  for  that  pair,  but  no  com- 
mission. ' ' 

"All  right,"  Billy  conceded.  "Hazel  an'  Hattie  come 
back  to  me;  but  you  can  pay  me  rent  for  the  time  you 
did  use  'em." 

"If  you  make  me,  I'll  charge  you  board,"  she  threat- 
ened. 

"An'  if  you  charge  me  board,  I'll  charge  you  interest 
for  the  money  I've  stuck  into  this  shebang." 

"You  can't,"  Saxon  laughed.  "It's  community  prop- 
erty." 

He  grunted  spasmodically,  as  if  the  breath  had  been 
knocked  out  of  him. 

"Straight  on  the  solar  plexus,"  he  said,  "an'  me  down 
for  the  count.  But  say,  them's  sweet  words,  ain't  they? — 
community  property."  He  rolled  them  over  and  off  his 
tongue  with  keen  relish.  "An'  when  we  got  married  the 
top  of  our  ambition  was  a  steady  job  an'  some  rags  an' 
sticks  of  furniture  all  paid  up  an'  half- worn  out.  We 
wouldn't  have  had  any  community  property  only  for 
you. ' ' 

"What  nonsense!  What  could  I  have  done  by  myself? 
You  know  very  well  that  you  earned  all  the  money  that 
started  us  here.  You  paid  the  wages  of  Gow  Yum  and 
Chan  Chi,  and  old  Hughie,  and  Mrs.  Paul,  and— why, 
you've  done  it  all." 

She  drew  her  two  hands  caressingly  across  his  shoul- 
ders and  down  along  his  great  biceps  muscles. 

"That's  what  did  it,  Billy." 

' '  Aw  hell !  It 's  your  head  that  done  it.  What  was  my 

muscles  good  for  with  no  head  to  run  'em?  sluggin' 

scabs,  beatin'  up  lodgers,  an'  crookin'  the  elbow  over  a 
bar.  The  only  sensible  thing  my  head  ever  done  was  when 
it  run  me  into  you.  Honest  to  God,  Saxon,  you've  ben 
the  makin'  of  me." 

"Aw  hell,  Billy,"  she  mimicked  in  the  way  that  de- 
lighted him,  "where  would  I  have  been  if  you  hadn't 
taken  me  out  of  the  laundry?  I  couldn't  take  myself 


516  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MO  ON 

out.  I  was  just  a  helpless  girl.  I'd  have  been  there  yet 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  you.  Mrs.  Mortimer  had  five  thou- 
sand dollars;  but  I  had  you." 

"A  woman  ain't  got  the  chance  to  help  herself  that 
a  man  has, ' '  he  generalized.  "  I  '11  tell  you  what :  It  took 
the  two  of  us.  It's  ben  team-work.  We've  run  in  span. 
If  we'd  a-run  single,  you  might  still  be  in  the  laundry; 
an',  if  I  was  lucky,  I'd  be  still  drivin'  team  by  the  day  an* 
sportin'  around  to  cheap  dances." 

Saxon  stood  under  the  father  of  all  madronos,  watch- 
ing Hazel  and  Hattie  go  out  the  gate,  the  full  vegetable 
wagon  behind  them,  when  she  saw  Billy  ride  in,  leading 
a  sorrel  mare  from  whose  silken  coat  the  sun  flashed  golden 
lights. 

"Four-year-old,  high-life,  a  handful,  but  no  vicious 
tricks,"  Billy  chanted,  as  he  stopped  beside  Saxon.  "Skin 
like  tissue  paper,  mouth  like  silk,  but  kill  the  toughest 
broncho  ever  foaled — look  at  them  lungs  an'  nostrils. 
They  call  her  Ramona — some  Spanish  name:  sired  by 
Morellita  outa  genuine  Morgan  stock." 

"And  they  will  sell  her?"  Saxon  gasped,  standing  with 
hands  clasped  in  inarticulate  delight. 

"That's  what  I  brought  her  to  show  you  for." 

' '  But  how  much  must  they  want  for  her  ? ' '  was  Saxon 's 
next  question,  so  impossible  did  it  seem  that  such  an 
amazement  of  horse-flesh  could  ever  be  hers. 

"That  ain't  your  business,"  Billy  answered  brusquely. 
"The  brickyard's  payin'  for  her,  not  the  vegetable  ranch. 
She's  yourn  at  the  word.  "What  d'ye  say?" 

"I'll  tell  you  in  a  minute." 

Saxon  was  trying  to  mount,  but  the  animal  danced 
nervously  away. 

' '  Hold  on  till  I  tie, ' '  Billy  said.  ' '  She  ain  't  skirt-broke, 
that's  the  trouble." 

Saxon  tightly  gripped  reins  and  mane,  stepped  with 
spurred  foot  on  Billy's  hand,  and  was  lifted  lightly  into 
the  saddle. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON      517 

"She's  used  to  spurs,"  Billy  called  after.  "Spanish 
broke,  so  don't  check  her  quick.  Come  in  gentle.  An' 
talk  to  her.  She's  high-life,  you  know." 

Saxon  nodded,  dashed  out  the  gate  and  down  the  road, 
waved  a  hand  to  Clara  Hastings  as  she  passed  the  gate 
of  Trillium  Covert,  and  continued  up  Wild  Water  canyon. 

When  she  came  back,  Ramona  in  a  pleasant  lather, 
Saxon  rode  to  the  rear  of  the  house,  past  the  chicken 
houses  and  the  flourishing  berry-rows,  to  join  Billy  on 
the  rim  of  the  bench,  where  he  sat  on  his  horse  in  the 
shade,  smoking  a  cigarette.  Together  they  looked  down 
through  an  opening  among  the  trees  to  the  meadow  which 
was  a  meadow  no  longer.  With  mathematical  accuracy 
it  was  divided  into  squares,  oblongs,  and  narrow  strips, 
which  displayed  sharply  the  thousand  hues  of  green  of  a 
truck  garden.  Grow  Yum  and  Chan  Chi,  under  enormous 
Chinese  grass  hats,  were  planting  green  onions.  Old 
Hughie,  hoe  in  hand,  plodded  along  the  main  artery  of 
running  water,  opening  certain  laterals,  closing  others. 
From  the  work-shed  beyond  the  barn  the  strokes  of  a 
hammer  told  Saxon  that  Carlsen  was  wire-binding  vege- 
table boxes.  Mrs.  Paul 's  cheery  soprano,  lifted  in  a  hymn, 
floated  through  the  trees,  accompanied  by  the  whirr  of  an 
egg-beater.  A  sharp  barking  told  where  Possum  still 
waged  hysterical  and  baffled  war  on  the  Douglass  squir- 
rels. Billy  took  a  long  draw  from  his  cigarette,  exhaled 
the  smoke,  and  continued  to  look  down  at  the  meadow. 
Saxon  divined  trouble  in  his  manner.  His  rein-hand  was 
;on  the  pommel,  and  her  free  hand  went  out  and  softly 
rested  on  his.  Billy  turned  his  slow  gaze  upon  her  mare's 
lather,  seeming  not  to  note  it,  and  continued  on  to  Saxon's 
face. 

"Huh!"  he  equivocated,  as  if  waking  up.  "Them  San 
Leandro  Porchugeeze  ain't  got  nothin'  on  us  when  it 
comes  to  intensive  farmin'.  Look  at  that  water  runnin'. 
You  know,  it  seems  so  good  to  me  that  sometimes  I  just 
wanta  get  down  on  hands  an'  knees  an'  lap  it  all  up 
myself. ' ' 


518  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON 

"Oh,  to  have  all  the  water  you  want  in  a  climate  like 
this! "  Saxon  exclaimed. 

"An'  don't  be  scared  of  it  ever  goin'  back  on  you.  If 
the  rains  fooled  you,  there's  Sonoma  Creek  alongside. 
All  we  gotta  do  is  install  a  gasolene  pump." 

"But  we'll  never  have  to,  Billy.     I  was  talking  with 

Redwood'    Thompson.     He's    lived   in  the   valley   since 

Fifty-three,  and  he  says  there's  never  been  a  failure  of 

crops  on  account  of  drought.     We  always  get  our  rain." 

"Come  on,  let's  go  for  a  ride,"  he  said  abruptly. 
"You've  got  the  time." 

"All  right,  if  you'll  tell  me  what's  bothering  you." 

He  looked  at  her  quickly. 

"  Nothin',"  he  grunted.  "  Yes,  there  is,  too.  What's  the 
difference  ?  You'd  know  it  sooner  or  later.  You  ought  to 
see  old  Chavon.  His  face  is  that  long  he  can't  walk  with- 
out bumpin'  his  knee  on  his  chin.  His  gold-mine's  peterin' 
out." 

"  Gold  mine  ! " 

"  His  clay  pit.  It's  the  same  thing.  He's  gettin'  twenty 
cents  a  yard  for  it  from  the  brickyard." 

"And  that  means  the  end  of  your  teaming  contract." 
Saxon  saw  the  disaster  in  all  its  hugeness.  "  What  about 
the  brickyard  people  ?  " 

"Worried  to  death,  though  they've  kept  secret  about 
it.  They've  had  men  out  punchin'  holes  all  over  the 
hills  for  a  week,  an'  that  Jap  chemist  settin'  up  nights 
analyzin*  the  rubbish  they've  brought  in.  It's  peculiar 
stuff,  that  elay,  for  what  they  want  it  for,  an'  you  don't 
find  it  everywhere.  Them  experts  that  reported  on  Chav- 
on's  pit  made  one  hell  of  a  mistake.  Maybe  they  was 
lazy  with  their  borin's.  Anyway,  they  slipped  up  on  the 
amount  of  clay  they  was  in  it.  Now  don't  get  to  botherin'. 
It'll  come  out  somehow.  You  can't  do  nothin'." 

' '  But  I  can, ' '  Saxon  insisted.    ' '  We  won 't  buy  Bamona. ' ' 

"You  ain't  got  a  thing  to  do  with  that,"  he  answered. 
"I'm  buyin'  her,  an'  her  price  don't  cut  any  figure  along- 
side the  big  game  I'm  play  in'.  Of  course,  I  can  always 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON  51& 

sell  my  horses.  But  that  puts  a  stop  to  their  makin* 
money,  an'  that  brickyard  contract  was  fat." 

"But  if  you  get  some  of  them  in  on  the  road  work  for 
the  county  ?  "  she  suggested. 

"  Oh,  I  got  that  in  mind.  An'  I'm  keepin'  my  eyes 
open.  They's  a  chance  the  quarry  will  start  again,  an' 
the  fellow  that  did  that  teamin'  has  gone  to  Puget  Sound. 
An'  what  if  I  have  to  sell  out  most  of  the  horses  ?  Here's 
you  and  the  vegetable  business.  That's  solid.  We  just 
don't  go  ahead  so  fast  for  a  time,  that's  all.  I  ain't  scared 
of  the  country  any  more.  I  sized  things  up  as  we  went 
along.  They  ain't  a  jerk  burg  we  hit  all  the  time  on 
the  road  that  I  couldn't  jump  into  an'  make  a  go.  An* 
now  where  d'you  want  to  ride?" 


CHAPTER   XXII 

THEY  cantered  out  the  gate,  thundered  across  the  bridge, 
and  passed  Trillium  Covert  before  they  pulled  in  on  the 
grade  of  "Wild  "Water  Canyon.  Saxon  had  chosen  her 
field  on  the  big  spur  of  Sonoma  Mountains  as  the  objec- 
tive of  their  ride. 

"Say,  I  bumped  into  something  big  this  mornin'  when 
I  was  goin'  to  fetch  Ramona,"  Billy  said,  the  clay  pit 
trouble  banished  for  the  time.  "You  know  the  hundred 
an'  forty.  I  passed  young  Chavon  along  the  road,  an' — I 
don't  know  why — just  for  ducks,  I  guess — I  up  an'  asked 
'm  if  he  thought  the  old  man  would  lease  the  hundred 
an'  forty  to  me.  An'  what  d'you  think!  He  said  the 
old  man  didn't  own  it.  Was  just  leasin'  it  himself.  That's 
how  we  was  always  seein'  his  cattle  on  it.  It's  a  gouge 
into  his  land,  for  he  owns  everything  on  three  sides  of  it. 

"Next  I  met  Ping.  He  said  Hilyard  owned  it  an'  was 
willin'  to  sell,  only  Chavon  didn't  have  the  price.  Then, 
comin'  back,  I  looked  in  on  Payne.  He's  quit  black- 
smithin' — his  back's  hurtin'  'm  from  a  kick — an'  just 
startin'  in  for  real  estate.  Sure,  he  said,  Hilyard  would 
sell,  an'  had  already  listed  the  land  with  'm.  Chavon 's 
over-pastured  it,  an'  Hilyard  won't  give  'm  another  lease." 

"When  they  had  climbed  out  of  "Wild  Water  Canyon., 
they  turned  their  horses  about  and  halted  on  the  rim,' 
where  they  could  look  across  at  the  three  densely  wooded 
knolls  in  the  midst  of  the  desired  hundred  and  forty. 

"We'll  get  it  yet,"  Saxon  said. 

"Sure  we  will,"  Billy  agreed  with  careless  certitude. 
"I've  ben  lookin'  over  the  big  adobe  barn  again.  Just 
the  thing  for  a  raft  of  horses,  an'  a  new  roof '11  be  cheaper 'n 
I  thought.  Though  neither  Chavon  or  me '11  be  in  the  mar- 
ket to  buy  it  right  away,  with  the  clay  pinchin'  out." 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     521 

When  they  reached  Saxon's  field,  which  they  had  learned 
was  the  property  of  Redwood  Thompson,  they  tied  the 
horses  and  entered  it  on  foot.  The  hay,  just  cut,  was 
being  raked  by  Thompson,  wrho  hallo 'd  a  greeting  to  them. 
It  was  a  cloudless,  windless  day,  and  they  sought  refuge 
from  the  sun  in  the  woods  beyond.  They  encountered  a 
dim  trail. 

"It's  a  cow  trail,"  Billy  declared.  "I  bet  they's  a 
teeny  pasture  tucked  away  somewhere  in  them  trees.  Let 's 
follow  it." 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  several  hundred  feet  up 
the  side  of  the  spur,  they  emerged  on  an  open,  grassy 
space  of  bare  hillside.  Most  of  the  hundred  and  forty, 
two  miles  away,  lay  beneath  them,  while  they  were  level 
with  the  tops  of  the  three  knolls.  Billy  paused  to  gaze 
upon  the  much-desired  land,  and  Saxon  joined  him. 

"What  is  that?"  she  asked,  pointing  toward  the  knolls. 
"Up  the  little  canyon,  to  the  left  of  it,  there  on  the  far- 
thest knoll,  right  under  that  spruce  that's  leaning  over." 

What  Billy  saw  was  a  white  scar  on  the  canyon  wall. 

"  It 's  one  on  me, ' '  he  said,  studying  the  scar.  ' '  I  thought 
I  knew  every  inch  of  that  land,  but  I  never  seen  that 
before.  Why,  I  was  right  in  there  at  the  head  of  the 
canyon  the  first  part  of  the  winter.  It 's  awful  wild.  Walls 
of  the  canyon  like  the  sides  of  a  steeple  an'  covered  with 
thick  woods." 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked.     "A  slide?" 

"Must  be — brought  down  by  the  heavy  rains.  If  I 

'don't  miss  my  guess "  Billy  broke  off,  forgetting  in 

the  intensity  with  which  he  continued  to  look. 

"Hilyard'll  sell  for  thirty  an  acre,"  he  began  again, 
disconnectedly.  "Good  land,  bad  land,  an'  all,  just  as  it 
runs,  thirty  an  acre.  That's  forty-two  hundred.  Payne's 
new  at  real  estate,  an'  I'll  make'm  split  his  commission 
an'  get  the  easiest  terms  ever.  We  can  re-borrow  that  four 
hundred  from  Gow  Yum,  an'  I  can  borrow  money  on  my 
horses  an'  wagons " 

"Are  you  going  to  buy  it  to-day?"  Saxon  teased. 


522  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

She  scarcely  touched  the  edge  of  his  thought.  He  looked 
at  her,  as  if  he  had  heard,  then  forgot  her  the  next  moment. 

"Head  work,"  he  mumbled.  "Head  work.  If  I  don't 
put  over  a  hot  one " 

He  started  back  down  the  cow  trail,  recollected  Saxon, 
and  called  over  his  shoulder: 

"Come  on.  Let's  hustle.  I  wanta  ride  over  an'  look  at 
that." 

So  rapidly  did  he  go  down  the  trail  and  across  the  field, 
that  Saxon  had  no  time  for  questions.  She  was  almost 
breathless  from  her  effort  to  keep  up  with  him. 

"What  is  it?"  she  begged,  as  he  lifted  her  to  the  saddle. 

"Maybe  it's  all  a  joke — I'll  tell  you  about  it  afterward," 
he  put  her  off. 

They  galloped  on  the  levels,  trotted  down  the  gentler 
slopes  of  road,  and  not  until  on  the  steep  descent  of  Wild 
Water  canyon  did  they  rein  to  a  walk.  Billy's  preoccu- 
pation was  gone,  and  Saxon  took  advantage  to  broach  a 
subject  which  had  been  on  her  mind  for  some  time. 

"Clara  Hastings  told  me  the  other  day  that  they're  go- 
ing to  have  a  house  party.  The  Hazards  are  to  be  there. 
and  the  Halls,  and  Roy  Blanchard.  .  .  ." 

c5he  looked  at  Billy  anxiously.  At  the  mention  of 
Elanchard  his  head  had  tossed  up  as  to  a  bugle  call.  Slow- 
ly a  whimsical  twinkle  began  to  glint  up  through  the 
cloudy  blue  of  his  eyes. 

"  It's  a  long  time  since  you  told  any  man  he  was  stand- 
ing on  his  foot,"  she  ventured  slyly. 

Billy  began  to  grin  sheepishly. 

''Aw,  that's  all  right,"  he  said  in  mock-lordly  ft^shion. 
"Roy  Blanchard  can  come.  I'll  let  'm.  All  that  was 
a  long  time  ago.  Besides,  I'm  too  busy  to  fool  with  such 
things." 

He  urged  his  horse  on  at  a  faster  walk,  and  as  soon  as 
the  slope  lessened  broke  into  a  trot.  At  Trillium  Covert 
they  were  galloping. 

"You'll  have  to  stop  for  dinner  first',"  Saxon  said,  as 
Hhey  neared  the  gate  of  Madrono  Ranch. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     523 

"You  stop,"  he  answered.  "I  don't  want  no  din- 
ner." 

"But  I  want  to  go  with  you,"  she  pleaded.  "What 
is  it?" 

"I  don't  dast  tell  you.  You  go  on  in  an'  get  your 
,  dinner. ' ' 

"Not  after  that,"  she  said.  "Nothing  can  keep  me 
from  coming  along  now." 

Half  a  mile  farther  on,  they  left  the  highway,  passed 
through  a  patent  gate  which  Billy  had  installed,  and 
crossed  the  fields  on  a  road  which  was  coated  thick  with 
chalky  dust.  This  was  the  road  that  led  to  Chavon's  clay 
pit.  The  hundred  and  forty  lay  to  the  west.  Two  wagons, 
in  a  cloud  of  dust,  came  into  sight. 

"Your  teams,  Billy,"  cried  Saxon.  "Think  of  it!  Just 
by  the  use  of  the  head,  earning  your  money  while  you're 
riding  around  with  me." 

"Makes  me  ashamed  to  think  how  much  cash  money 
each  one  of  them  teams  is  bringin'  me  in  every  day,"  ha 
acknowledged. 

They  were  turning  off  from  the  road  toward  the  bars 
which  gave  entrance  to  the  one  hundred  and  forty,  when 
the  driver  of  the  foremost  wagon  hallo 'd  and  waved  his 
hand.  They  drew  in  their  horses  and  waited. 

"The  big  roan's  broke  loose,"  the  driver  said,  as  he 
stopped  beside  them.  "Clean  crazy  loco — bitin',  squeal- 
in',  strikin',  kickin'.  Kicked  clean  out  of  the  harness  like 
it  was  paper.  Bit  a  chunk  out  of  Baldy  the  size  of  a 
saucer,  an'  wound  up  by  breakin'  his  own  hind  leg.  Live- 
liest fifteen  minutes  I  ever  seen." 

"Sure  it's  broke?"  Billy  demanded  sharply. 

"Sure  thing." 

"Well,  after  you  unload,  drive  around  by  the  other 
barn  and  get  Ben.  He's  in  the  corral.  Tell  Matthews  to 
be  easy  with  'm.  An '  get  a  gun.  Sammy 's  got  one.  You  '11 

have  to  see  to  the  big  roan.  I  ain  't  got  time  now.  Why 

couldn't  Matthews  a-come  along  with  you  for  Ben?  You'd 
save  time." 


524  THE    VALLEY    OP    THE    MOON 

"Oh,  he's  just  stickin'  around  waitin',"  the  driver  an- 
swered. "He  reckoned  I  could  get  Ben." 

"An'  lose  time,  eh?     Well,  get  a  move  on." 

"That's  the  way  of  it,"  Billy  growled  to  Saxon  as  they 
rode  on.  ' '  No  sawe.  No  head.  One  man  settln '  down  an ' 
holdin'  his  hands  while  another  team  drives  outa  its 
way  doin'  what  he  oughta  done.  That's  the  trouble  with 
two-dollar-a-day  men." 

"With  two-dollar-a-day  heads,"  Saxon  said  quickly. 
"What  kind  of  heads  do  you  expect  for  two  dollars?" 

"That's  right,  too,"  Billy  acknowledged  the  hit.  "If 
they  had  better  heads  they'd  be  in  the  cities  like  all  the 
rest  of  the  better  men.  An'  the  better  men  are  a  lot  of 
dummies,  too.  They  don't  knew  the  big  chances  in  the 
country,  or  you  couldn't  hold  'm  from  it." 

Billy  dismounted,  took  the  three  bars  down,  led  his 
horse  through,  then  put  up  the  bars. 

"When  I  get  this  place,  there'll  be  a  gate  here,"  he 
announced.  "Pay  for  itself  in  no  time.  It's  the  thousan' 
an'  one  little  things  like  this  that  count  up  big  when  you 
put  'm  together."  He  sighed  contentedly.  "I  never  used 
to  think  about  such  things,  but  when  we  shook  Oakland  I 
began  to  wise  up.  It  was  them  San  Leandro  Porchu- 
geeze  that  gave  me  my  first  eye-opener.  I'd  ben  asleep 
before  that." 

They  skirted  the  lower  of  the  three  fields,  where  the 
ripe  hay  stood  uncut.  Billy  pointed  with  eloquent  dis- 
gust to  a  break  in  the  fence,  slovenly  repaired,  and  on  to 
•the  standing  grain  much-trampled  by  cattle. 

"Them's  the  things,"  he  criticized.  "Old  style.  An* 
look  how  thin  that  crop  is,  an '  the  shallow  plowin '.  Scrub 
cattle,  scrub  seed,  scrub  farmin'.  Chavon's  worked  it  for 
eight  years  now,  an'  never  rested  it  once,  never  put  any- 
thing in  for  what  he  took  out,  except  the  cattle  into  the 
stubble  the  minute  the  hay  was  off." 

In  a  pasture  glade,  farther  on,  they  came  upon  a  bunch 
of  cattle. 

"Look  at  that  bull,   Saxon.     Scrub's  no  name  for  it. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     525 

Thsy  oughta  be  a  state  law  against  lettin'  such  animals 
exist.  No  wonder  Chavon's  that  land  poor  he's  had  to 
sink  all  his  clay-pit  earnin's  into  taxes  an'  interest.  He 
can't  make  his  land  pay.  Take  this  hundred  an'  forty. 
Anybody  with  the  savve  can  just  rake  silver  dollars  off  en 
it.  I'll  show  'm." 

They  passed  the  big  adobe  barn  in  the  distance. 

"A  few  dollars  at  the  right  time  would  a-saved  hun- 
dreds on  that  roof,"  Billy  commented.  "Well,  anyway,' 
I  won't  be  payin'  for  any  improvements  when  I  buy.  An' 
I'll  tell  you  another  thing.  This  ranch  is  full  of  water, 
and  if  Glen  Ellen  ever  grows  they'll  have  to  come  to  see 
me  for  their  water  supply." 

Billy  knew  the  ranch  thoroughly,  and  took  short-cuts 
through  the  woods  by  way  of  cattle  paths.  Once,  he  reined 
in  abruptly,  and  both  stopped.  Confronting  them,  a  dozen 
paces  away,  was  a  half-grown  red  fox.  For  half  a  minute, 
with  beady  eyes,  the  wild  thing  studied  them,  with  twitch- 
ing sensitive  nose  reading  the  messages  of  the  air.  Then, 
velvet-footed,  it  leapt  aside  and  was  gone  among  the  trees. 

"The  son-of-a-gun ! "  Billy  ejaculated. 

As  they  approached  Wild  Water,  they  rode  out  into 
a  long  narrow  meadow.  In  the  middle  was  a  pond. 

"Natural  reservoir,  when  Glen  Ellen  begins  to  buy 
water,"  Billy  said.  "See,  down  at  the  lower  end  there? 

wouldn't  cost  anything  hardly  to  throw  a  dam  across. 

An'  I  can  pipe  in  all  kinds  of  hill-drip.  An'  water's 
goin'  to  be  money  in  this  valley  not  a  thousan'  years  from, 
now.  An'  all  the  ginks,  an'  boobs,  an'  dubs,  an'  gaza- 
bos poundin'  their  ear  deado  an'  not  seein'  it  eomin'1 

An'  surveyors  workin'  up  the  valley  for  an  electric 

road  from  Sausalito  with  a  branch  up  Napa  Valley." 

They  came  to  the  rim  of  Wild  Water  canyon.  Leaning 
far  back  in  their  saddles,  they  slid  the  horses  down  a 
steep  declivity,  through  big  spruce  woods,  to  an  ancient 
and  all  but  obliterated  trail. 

"They  cut  this  trail  'way  back  in  the  Fifties,"  Billy 
explained.  "I  only  found  it  by  accident.  Then  I  asked 


526  THE   VALLEY   OF    THE   MOON 

Poppe  yesterday.  He  was  born  in  the  valley.  He  said 
it  was  a  fake  minin'  rush  across  from  Petaluma.  The 
gamblers  got  it  up,  an7  they  must  a-drawn  a  thousan' 
suckers.  You  see  that  flat  there,  an'  the  old  stumps. 
That's  where  the  camp  was.  They  set  the  tables  up  under 
the  trees.  The  flat  used  to  be  bigger,  but  the  creek's  eaten 
into  it.  Poppe  said  they  was  a  couple  of  killin's  an'  one 
jlynchin'." 

Lying  low  against  their  horses'  necks,  they  scrambled 
up  a  steep  cattle  trail  out  of  the  canyon,  and  began  to 
work  across  rough  country  toward  the  knolls. 

"Say,  Saxon,  you're  always  lookin'  for  something  pretty. 
I'll  show  you  what '11  make  your  hair  stand  up  .  .  . 
soon  as  we  get  through  this  manzanita." 

Never,  in  all  their  travels,  had  Saxon  seen  so  lovely 
a  vista  as  the  one  that  greeted  them  when  they  emerged. 
The  dim  trail  lay  like  a  rambling  red  shadow  cast  on  the 
soft  forest  floor  by  the  great  redwoods  and  over-arching 
oaks.  It  seemed  as  if  all  local  varieties  of  trees  and  vines 
bad  conspired  to  weave  the  leafy  roof — maples,  big  ma- 
dronos and  laurels,  and  lofty  tan-bark  oaks,  scaled  and 
wrapped  and  interwound  with  wild  grape  and  flaming 
poison  oak.  Saxon  drew  Billy's  eyes  to  a  mossy  bank  of 
five-finger  ferns.  All  slopes  seemed  to  meet  to  form  this 
basin  and  colossal  forest  bower.  Underfoot  the  floor  was 
spongy  with  water.  An  invisible  streamlet  whispered  un- 
der broad-fronded  brakes.  On  every  hand  opened  tiny 
vistas  of  enchantment,  where  young  redwoods  grouped 
still  and  stately  about  fallen  giants,  shoulder-high  to  the 
horses,  moss-covered  and  dissolving  inta  mold. 

At  last,  after  another  quarter  of  an  ho^r,  they  tied  their 
horses  on  the  rim  of  the  narrow  canyon  t  that  penetrated 
the  wilderness  of  the  knolls.  Through  a  rift  in  the  trees 
Billy  pointed  to  the  top  of  the  leanin  spruce. 

"It's  right  under  that,"  he  said.  *'  AV11  have  to  fol- 
low up  the  bed  of  the  creek.  They  ai  't  no  trail,  though 
you'll  see  plenty  of  deer  paths  crossin'  the  creek.  You'll 
get  your  feet  wet." 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     527 

Saxon  laughed  her  joy  and  held  on  close  to  his  heels, 
splashing  through  pools,  crawling  hand  and  foot  up  the 
slippery  faces  of  water-worn  rocks,  and  worming  under 
trunks  of  old  fallen  trees. 

"They  ain't  no  real  bed-rock  in  the  whole  mountain," 
Billy  elucidated,  "so  the  stream  cuts  deeper 'n  deeper, 
an'  that  keeps  the  sides  eavin'  in.  They're  as  steep  as 
they  can  be  without  fallin'  down.  A  little  farther  up,  the 
'canyon  ain't  much  rnore'n  a  crack  in  the  ground — but  a 
mighty  deep  one  if  anybody  should  ask  you.  You  can 
spit  acrost  it  an'  break  your  neck  in  it." 

The  climbing  grew  more  difficult,  and  they  were  finally 
halted,  in  a  narrow  cleft,  by  a  drift-jam. 

"You  wait  here,"  Billy  directed,  and,  lying  flat, 
squirmed  on  through  crashing  brush. 

Saxon  waited  till  all  sound  had  died  away.  She  waited 
ten  minutes  longer,  then  followed  by  the  way  Billy  had 
broken.  Where  the  bed  of  the  canyon  became  impossible, 
she  came  upon  what  she  was  sure  was  a  deer  path  that 
skirted  the  steep  side  and  was  a  tunnel  through  the  close 
greenery.  She  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  overhanging  spruce, 
almost  above  her  head  on  the  opposite  side,  and  emerged 
on  a  pool  of  clear  water  in  a  clay-like  basin.  This  basin 
was  of  recent  origin,  having  been  formed  by  a  slide  of 
earth  and  trees.  Across  the  pool  arose  an  almost  sheer 
wall  of  white.  She  recognized  it  for  what  it  was,  and 
looked  about  for  Billy.  She  heard  him  whistle,  and  looked 
up.  Two  hundred  feet  above,  at  the  perilous  top  of  the 
white  wall,  he  was  holding  on  to  a  tree  trunk.  The  over- 
hanging  spruce  was  nearby. 

"I  can  see  t  3  little  pasture  back  of  your  field,"  he 
called  down.  '  No  wonder  nobody  ever  piped  this  off. 
The  only  place  tl'oy  could  see  it  from  is  that  speck  of  pas- 
ture. An'  you  s$w  it  first.  "Wait  till  I  come  down  and 
tell  you  all  abouAt.  I  didn't  dast  before." 

It  required  no  '.'shrewdness  to  guess  the  truth.  Saxon 
knew  this  was  the  precious  clay  required  by  the  brick- 
yard. Billy  circled  wide  of  the  slide  and  came  down  the 


528  THE   VALLEY   OP    THE   MOON 

eanyon-wall,  from  tree  to  tree,   as  descending  a  ladder. 

" Ain't  it  a  peach?"  he  exulted,  as  he  dropped  beside 
her.  "Just  look  at  it — hidden  away  under  four  feet  of 
soil  where  nobody  could  see  it,  an'  just  waitin'  for  us  to 
hit  the  Valley  of  the  Moon.  Then  it  up  an'  slides  a  piece 
of  the  skin  off  so  as  we  can  see  it." 

"Is  it  the  real  clay?"  Saxon  asked  anxiously. 

"You  bet  your  sweet  life.  I've  handled  too  much  o£ 
it  not  to  know  it  in  the  dark.  Just  rub  a  piece  between 

your  fingers,  Like  that.  Why,  I  could  tell  by  the 

taste  of  it.  I've  eaten  enough  of  the  dust  of  the  teams. 
Here's  where  our  fun  begins.  Why,  you  know  we've  ben 
workin'  our  heads  off  since  we  hit  this  valley.  Now  we're 
on  Easy  street." 

"But  you  don't  own  it,"  Saxon  objected. 

"Well,  you  won't  be  a  hundred  years  old  before  I  do. 
Straight  from  here  I  hike  to  Payne  an*  bind  the  bargain 
— an  option,  you  know,  while  title's  searchin'  an'  I'm  rais- 
in' money.  Well  borrow  that  four  hundred  back  again 
from  Gow  Yum,  an '  I  '11  borrow  all  I  can  get  on  my  horses 
an'  wagons,  an'  Hazel  and  Hattie,  an'  everything  that's 
worth  a  cent.  An'  then  I  get  the  deed  with  a  mortgage  on 
it  to  Hilyard  for  the  balance.  An*  then — it's  takin'  candy 
from  a  baby — I'll  contract  with  the  brickyard  for  twenty 
cents  a  yard — maybe  more.  They'll  be  crazy  with  joy 
when  they  see  it.  Don't  need  any  borin's.  They's  nearly 
two  hundred  feet  of  it  exposed  up  an'  down.  The  whole 
knoll's  clay,  with  a  skin  of  soil  over  it." 

"But  you'll  spoil  all  the  beautiful  canyon  hauling  out 
the  clay,"  Saxon  cried  with  alarm. 

"Nope;  only  the  knoll.  The  road '11  come  in  from  the 
other  side.  It'll  be  only  half  a  mile  to  Chacon's  pit.  I'll 
build  the  road  an'  charge  steeper  teamin',  or  the  brick- 
yard can  build  it  an'  I'll  team  for  the  same  rate  as  before. 
An'  twenty  cents  a  yard  pourin'  in,  all  profit,  from  the 
jump.  I  '11  sure  have  to  buy  more  horses  to  do  the  work. ' ' 

They  sat  hand  in  hand  beside  the  pool  and  talked  over 
the  details. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON     529 

"Say,  Saxon,"  Billy  said,  after  a  pause  had  fallen,  ''sing 
'Harvest  Days,'  won't  you?" 

And,  when  she  had  complied :  ' '  The  first  time  you  sung 
that  song  for  me  was  eomin'  home  from  the  picnic  on  the 
train " 

"The  Tery  first  day  we  met  each  other,"  she  broke  in. 
'What  did  you  think  about  me  that  day?" 

"Why,  what  I've  thought  ever  since — that  you  was  made 
tlor  me.  I  thought  that  right  at  the  jump,  in  the  first 
.waltz.  An*  what'd  you  think  of  me?" 

"Oh,  I  wondered,  and  before  the  first  waltz,  too,  when 
we  were  introduced  and  shook  hands — I  wondered  if  you 
were  the  man.  Those  were  the  very  words  that  flashed 
into  my  mind.  Is  he  the  man?" 

"An'  I  kinda  looked  a  little  some  good  to  you?"  he 
queried. 

"/  thought  so,  and  my  eyesight  has  always  been 
good." 

"Say!"  Billy  went  off  at  a  tangent.  "By  next  winter, 
with  everything  hummjn'  an'  shipshape,  what's  the  mat- 
ter with  us  makin'  a  visit  to  Carmel?  It'll  be  slack  time 
for  you  with  the  vegetables,  an'  I'll  be  able  to  afford  a 
foreman. ' ' 

Saxon's  lack  of  enthusiasm  surprised  him. 

"What's  wrong?"  he  demanded  quickly. 

With  downcast  demurest  eyes  and  hesitating  speech. 
Saxon  said: 

"I  did  something  yesterday  without  asking  your  ad- 
,vice,  Billy." 

He  waited. 

"I  wrote  to  Tom,"  she  added,  with  an  air  of  timid  con* 
fession. 

Still  he  waited— for  he  knew  not  what. 

"I  asked  him  to  ship  up  the  old  chest  of  drawers — my 
mother's,  you  remember — that  we  stored  with  him." 

"Huh!  I  don't  see  anything  outa  the  way  about  that/' 
Billy  said  with  relief.  "We  need  the  chest,  don't  we? 
An'  we  can  afford  to  pay  the  freight  on  it,  can't  we?" 


530  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   MOON 

"You  are  a  dear  stupid  man,  that's  what  you  are* 
Don't  you  know  what  is  in  the  chest?" 

He  shook  his  head,  and  what  she  added  was  so  soft  that 
it  was  almost  a  whisper: 

"The  baby  clothes." 

"No!"  he  exclaimed. 

"True." 

"Sure?" 

She  nodded  her  head,  her  cheeks  flooding  with  qtiick 
color. 

"It's  what  I  wanted,  Saxon,  more'n  anything  else  in 
the  world.  I've  ben  thinkin'  a  whole  lot  about  it  lately, 
ever  since  we  hit  the  valley,"  ae  went  on,  brokenly,  and 
for  the  first  time  she  saw  tears  unmistakable  in  his  eyes. 
"But  after  all  I'd  done,  an'  the  hell  I'd  raised,  an'  every- 
thing, J  ...  I  never  urged  you,  or  said  a  word  about 
it.  But  I  wanted  it  ...  oh,  I  wanted  it  like  .  .  . 
like  I  want  you  now." 

His  open  arms  received  her,  and  the  pool  in  the  heart  of 
the  canyon  knew  a  tender  silence. 

Saxon  felt  Billy's  finger  laid  warningly  on  her  lips. 
Guided  by  his  hand,  she  turned  her  head  back,  and  to- 
gether they  gazed  far  up  the  side  of  the  knoll  where  a  doe 
and  a  spotted  fawn  looked  down  upon  them  from  a  tiny 
open  space  between  the  trees. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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RENEWALS 


REC'D  ID-URL 

1991 


3  1158  01200  2084 


HI 


